-under the porch-  DRAFT

under the porch with its permanent stench,

the stagnant primordial pools of who knows what,

the threat of tuberculosis hanging there, the secret stash

of all the best stuff; the yellowing Chesterfield punch-out nabbed

from the oldman's pack three nights before, the gritty girlie magazines,
stiff and crinkled with whatever it was which couldn't be evaporated,
colorless pages stuck together, eye-popping, portly 1950’s pinups,

posing in garters and girdles, imagined images of the meaty aunts 
who came by for a visit from my father's branch of the heavy
D'Elia family tree, the low-hanging fruit; Alma, Livia, Eva,
a peach and a plum and an apricot or two, all the beehive blondes,
spray-fixed perfectionists, more French than Italian, who'd sit
on the couch cross-legged, as I'd stake my claim of observation,


silken grey, the thick-seamed nylons pressed on the musty pages
of the underworld's forbidden art, all the hose snapped in place
at just the right time and when they'd come for a visit, I'd sit in place,

a frame of reference for observations same as the frame-of-reference
under the porch.

 Quequechan, 1951 / 1953? DRAFT!