-Only you-

1.

Time waits for everyone.
It waits for us to finish our tasks at hand.

It hangs around as we clean-up the mess.

From the beginning, time records our names at its margins.

Working outward, it cuts-through the narrow openings

whenever it notices someone of interest.

The dance is beautiful, but time seldom lingers when

we deem it appropriate to do so.

As in: "I wish we had more time".

2.

On calm, open waters, windspeed is sometimes

calculated from the visual difference in chop or color

seen on the sheet of the water in the distance.
I've known those who've made the effort to con the helm

in that direction, succeeding and not succeeding.

3.

There’s a perceived weakness applied to those of us

coached to choke-up at the plate.

They said: "Choke-up!

There's a better chance to make contact".

––It's true.
The bat seems lighter at the barrel
and it comes around with less effort.
The knees are assisted and the wrists,
and concentration on the pitch is enhanced

and when contact happens, it's only you

left running up the first base line, but it's time

who determines the outcome.

-getting the lead inside-

the last quarter of my 15th year
and learning to drive
under the tutelage of my father.

behind the impossible

circumference of the steering wheel

I negotiated his 1950 Ford 4-door sedan to the left

slowly crossing the middle of Bedford street

then freewheeling into "Whitey's" Esso station,

positioning the utilitarian pea-green beauty

alongside the pump for a dollar’s worth of Regular.

this was gasoline possessed
before it was sissified and drained of its leaded blood

and a buck’s-worth took you somewhere;

on this day, across the street 
and with a fresh greenback in the tank

we rolled to a break-drum's squealing stop
at the curb in front of our house, and

after a Saturday's lunch of starch and sugars,

we’d head-out to the route 6 highway at the Narrows.

the oldman would drive there,

pull over to the shoulder
and with the engine running
engage the emergency brake
setting the column shift to neutral.

he'd get out from behind the wheel
as I slid across the benchseat

and from the passenger side he instructed me

to release the emergency brake.

with a tight, left-handed grip on the handle,

a slight but strong nudge upward to release

and a confident counterclockwise twist,
the apparatus sunk to rest beneath the dashboard.

“Next time keep your foot on the brake pedal”.

I made the same mistake leaving the gas station.

“You did the same thing pulling out of "Whitey's""!

It seemed to me at the time that if my oldman drove as carelessly

on his way to Buzzard's Bay in the morning he’d be killed on the road,
thrown from the pea-green 4-door Ford sedan to lay belly-up
on the pavement of old route 6 like a common possum, and if so;

who then would drive eastward in the morning on route 6

to sell the booze necessary to support the family?

certainly not me with my careless driving record.

christ, even the buck spent for gasoline at Whitey's came from his pocket.

                                                       

-the true rankings-

Looking westward toward the river

at the juncture of Bedford and twilight, the Sun

cuts into the greying horizon of Rhode Island

as if a circular saw cut a clean line through the Earth.

The tenement houses on the western hillside, exhale

one last breath against the weathered shingles,

exhausting the daylight from their lungs.

It doesn’t stop the dogs

from nosing around on the street,

or me for that matter.

But the dogs have their own self-centered plans.

The street's less active at dusk

with most everybody at home from work,

settling in, ready for supper.

Maybe they’ll go out to eat.

The diners are open late on Fridays

and the food can’t be an object of discussion,

being the same as it was forty years ago

and dinner interiors too, save for the kids

who nowadays spin less aggressively

on their stools at the counters.

Earnshaws Diner,

sitting as far west as the land allows

before reaching the banks of the river,

rates 2 stars out of 5 with its hash and eggs,—

but earns another totaling three,

after it was force-tucked beneath the new

95 West ramp, adding to its restlessness.

Sambo’s Diner

on Pleasant Street gets 3 out of 5,

not for its lack-luster menu,

but for the pleasure

of the crazy company it keeps,—

the Friday night parking lot, rich

with threatening Super Stocks

thirsting for a quarter-mile shot at the highway.

The little Nite-Owl Diner

sitting by itself like a lost shoe

on the wide-open corner

of Pleasant and Eastern Avenue burns

the flat-side of the tongue

with a hot, melted-cheddar cheese  

scooped inside a steamed hamburger bun,

earning an extra star to make it 4, but only

after two o'clock in the morning.

Al Mac's Diner

at the foot of the Seven Hills,

the one which pressed its meatloaf plate

into our throats after the funerals,

where the working waitresses called us “Honey";

Al Mac's,

glazed in stainless siding,

the hungry tin-knocker’s dream;

the gas station attendant's half-hour reprieve;

Al Mac's,

where the grinning City Council candidates,

glad-hand the lunch-time constituents,

who show-up in cuff-rolled dress shirts

ready to "get to work for you"!
three weeks before the elections

disrupting the diner's revolution of its perennial

population;

Al Mac's,—

which greets the sunrise

with the clatter of beginnings

and where the burgeoning

Moon will lift its weight to sing its tune

of late-night romance;— 5 stars, easy.

                                              Fall River

closing my survey of Priest MezzaTesta

-when god looks like the guy on the ceiling-

1.
when I’m no longer engaged

either remembered

or not remembered

but dead nonetheless;

when recollections end,

when storytelling ends

and my early friends die as I die..

2.
Priest! MezzaTesta!— the chosen wait
in the sacristy
by way of the ballpark

(as was your preference) who,
beforehand washed

the sweat of the game from its balls

in your honor

for the honor of your company
through the narrow archway behind
the purple curtain —

looked like a form of,

some sort of

heavy, felt-like material, hung
where time-saving stores in pre-

blessed holy water was shelved,
(it's a natural thing) —  the sour
scent of nicotine wafting

from under the yellow-stained fingernails and

wait a minute.

I’ve got me a poem around here somewhere... basta!


                                                       

-storm front-

last night I watched a dramatization

of the “Wannsee Conference” on television

as its participants discussed plans for the 

“Final Solution” then I went to bed.

in the morning, all the initial necessities of beginning

a common day were completed with, if not speed, accuracy.

I settled-in.

the winter months here are hard

and as a community, we've planned for snow
forecasted later today at upwards of two feet,
calling-in the fleet of fierce machinery.

afterward, the junior high school entrepreneurs

with scoop shovels perched on their shoulders,

treading snow in groups of three or five,
will mount their campaigns, calculating
each driveway’s earning potential.

when the time comes, I’ll negotiate.

as of now, the heavy overcast is deepening.

last night the “Wannsee Conference”
went-off without a hitch.

one hundred thousand here,

two hundred thousand there...

the S.S. Major suggested shooting them.
he is mocked by his superiors as a young
officer of the Third Reich with much to learn.

the S.S. Colonel argued for electrocution.
his experiments at the "Institute" on the infirm
and mentally defective showed "promising results."

they plotted the route of the trains to their destinations.

they considered the problems of

            cleaning the inevitable soiling

            inside the chambers.

            then they paused for lunch.

over schnitzel, the architect of the "Nuremberg Laws" said:
“Sterilization”.

he said: “We simply cut them off at this generation”.

the S.S. General interrupted:

"Six thousand is an equation easily solved".

he said: "Six million and the machinery
must be set in place". 

he said: “Just get them on the trains”.

the snow is beginning to fall heavily
and it looks like two feet, easy.
It's not a wind-blown snowfall.
It falls vertically and silently

like a requiem.
the driveway is long.
when the kids show up I’ll offer them
forty bucks, flat.

  

-Abracadabra-

The low-lying clouds brighten

And below them

The asphalt is warming.

The street begins to waken

To its common activities. 

The cherry blossom tree

In front of the brown house

Across the street has flowered.

It will be that way for a few days

Until the blossoms fall,

Covering everything beneath them

In pink petals as if participating in a function.

As of now, the blossoms

Have the morning

Running through them

And the population mans

Its early machinery, cranking-up

The engines of rejuvenation.

The heavy factories flex their sweltering

Muscles in the distance and the sky seems

To suck the smoke from their stacks. 

They’ll cool to postmortem-

Grey in early evening

But before that happens

The interiors will grow hotter.

There was a time when

Not much seemed recognizable. Then

Everything showed-up unexpectedly

Like a knock at the door of the wrong house.

Now there are things to attend to

And stories to define or confess, you know,

In case the people show-up

With time on their hands, and me with the universe

Up my sleeves.

I enjoy the recurring company

And the best part is they seldom

Make excuses as to why they leave.

They simply vanish to be found somewhere else.

Abracadabra.

Anyway, having been there, after reading one or two,
I'd rather not stick around too long, myself.