-at the funeral procession-

On the sidewalk with my grandfather

Waiting at the curb in front of the house,

I'm young enough to be unaware

Of how old he is.

I’m seven or so and there’s a purpose

In standing there together.

In the warm months, my grandfather
Sat in the backyard under the grapevine
Which he cultivated.

In the dank cellar, he'd press its grapes
For the red table wine he drank,
As far as I can reflect, throughout his day.

From the outer-band of his constant fedora

The indelible stain of sweat held fast.

The worn grey cardigan had lost its color

And violet droplets from the Port

Crusted over the long unlaundered months. 

He was a quiet old gentleman

And standing with me on the curb,

Traffic-heavy Bedford Street rumbled

At our feet in front of the house we shared

With his wife, my mother and father,

My brother, sister,

And multitudes of time-replaced pets.

But when the funeral procession moved by

Everything slowed to a silent cadence.

As it passed, he gently tipped his fedora

Holding it by the crown with his fingertips

In what I later learned was an act of respect

To the living family transporting its dead.

At its end, he placed the weathered soft-hat 

Back on his head without adjustment,

As if time had taught him how to do it.

Across the street, ESSO gasoline
Was pumping and to the left, Little League tryouts

Were assembling, with swarms of kids

Pedaling into Columbus Park.

With my new glove at the ready,

Season's before my right hand

Would properly fit into it,

We crossed the street together.

I was born a left-hander.
A born left fielder.

But baseball would have to wait.

Inside the fence, my grandfather was told

That I was too young to tryout for Little League

And we were turned away

By old Ray Pariese, that stroonz,

Who rubbed the top of my baseball cap

Disturbing the meticulousness

Of the crease I'd made just above the brim.

So, hand-in-hand,

With my glove positioned to play,

We crossed the busy street to our first-

Floor tenement and the inside life of our house.

In time, I'd grab that glove from the hook

On the wall in my bedroom and cross

The same busy street to the park on my own.

                                                Quequechan