-Violenza!-

Nick Fazzaro

knows how the game is played.

He stands ready at the head of the lane,
bending forward at the belt-line.
the side rails are crowded with active bettors 

as Nick cradles the bocce in the palm of his right hand,

studying the lone pallina in the distance.

These are the eyes and hands of a shuttle-loom mechanic.

Bert Bertoncini,

unemployed meat-cutter

now broken in spirit and into the game

by more than he can muster,

waits at the rail of the court

drunk and nasty as hell.

I'm standing as witness,

too young to compete or wager

at the Bocce Lanes of Club Marconi,

same side of the street as the ballpark,

half a block east from my house, just beyond the billboards.

One sure thing:

Nick and Bert will end this day with violence.

Maybe the bad blood started inside the Club
the night before with a drunkard's glance,

or a bloodshot, half-eyed stare then a swig

of Bohemian beer, tough from the bottle's neck,

or a younger sister in the backseat recently exposed,

or the newly elected "Miss Rheingold" on somebody's

losing end of the bet.

It's all on the table.

Nick’s a tough customer.

Bert’s just plain crazy.

When he’s drunk, one agrees whole-

heartedly with whatever his position

on whichever subject is proposed.

This time around, Nick's heard enough

and his bocce, flying fast through the air

strikes Bert in the head, and he drops at the rail

like a tuna decked before the hold.

At the hectic wake,

the attendees representing

Club Marconi console the grieving family.

"Sorry for your troubles"

"Sorry for your troubles."

"Sorry for your troubles..."

They tread lightly along the line.

Even in death, Bert's imposing body

is a threatening exhibition.

Under the houselights of "Parlor C,"
the big parlor upstairs, the violet shadow of violence

bleeds through the rouge which paints Bert's face.

Nick Fazzaro,

shuttle-loom mechanic, father of two,

released on his own recognizance,  

stands ready at the head
of the bocce lane at Club Marconi;

cradles the pallino

elegantly in the palm of his right hand,

knowing how the game is played.

Quequechan, c.1953