-Training on the straits of Healy-

Years before "Pinky" Imbriglio drowned

After diving from the granite ledge

Into the dark shallows of its water,
The bike's training wheels were detached

And the strong grip of my father's hand

To the saddle's back stabilized

The rolling hand-me-down bike as the handlebars

Swiveled frantically in the trainee's grip.

The best place for this training

Was on the straight and level

Portion of Healy Street

Running behind the backyard

Where old man Rachlin

Piled-up the rusted hulks of automobiles
Laid-waste by time or collision

Into tantalizing pyramids,

His junkyard fence as barb-wired

As any military installation.

Two years later, my younger brother
Was training on the straits of Healy
Likewise guided by our father's hand.

Because of an exemplary sales record

And tenacious affability, my father

Will earn his company-paid Buick Roadmaster

Affording him a rite of passage and substance

As he travelled route 6 and points east,

Selling booze for the Sterling Beverage Company

To the Cape's seasonal bars and restaurants.

Eleven years before Pinky

Pushed his feet

From the precipice of the ledge,

My mother would begin her work

As an inner hatband stitcher

At the Sagamore Mill No 3,

Signing her pledge of support

To the I.L.G.W.U.,

And for a short time labored there

Alongside her sisters and friends

In the making of hats for men.

Daily, and for years to come,
My father will navigate the narrow
Two-lane highway of route 6 toward Buzzard's Bay,

Charting east and north into an expanding territory.

My brother and I will ride our bikes confidently
Disregarding his early concerns for our safety.

The inner hatband stitches
Sewn by my mother will hold

And the drowned will one day

Be pulled from the water.

  

                                           Quequechan