the four sisters

there’s a park in the city

where a stone fountain stands.

this fountain isn’t elaborately decorated

or sculpted, it isn't named for a local Union soldier

lost in the Civil War, nor for the God of water. –– 

its wide bowl rests upon a substantial pedestal,

the whole of it reflecting the utilitarian nature

of the working class city it stands in.

the four sisters pose there arcing slightly around

the bowl of the fountain.

one sister pretends to drink from the bubbler

as instructed by the snapshooter.

in the foreground from the left, we find

Olympia, and to her left, Pauline,

and to her left, Antoinette.

behind them, stands the youngest of them by far, 

Anne, who is my mother.

sensible, open-toed shoes all around,

four purses called "pocketbooks," the straps held

by hand as prescribed by their time, fashion and culture,

four dresses preparatorily dry-cleaned and hung

under cover to be worn and displayed

when away from the kitchen sinks of home.

It’s a local outing of some kind.

maybe there's a function at the park.

a Roman Catholic celebration perhaps, which means

the festivities are more Italian than Roman Catholic.

a guest of honor may come to speak.

could be a Bishop from the Boston Diocese.

there's a grandstand in the distance, where

the chosen speakers will be ear-piercingly amplified.

Olympia Pieroni, who kept an orderly house,

is mother to Paul, famed knuckleballer,

and married a man with the same last name.

Pauline Pieroni, who kept an orderly house,

is mother to Albert, eulogized in the poem: “Fate of God,”

also married a man with the same last name.

Antoinette Toni, who kept the most orderly of houses,

married the great cobbler to the southend of town

with a different last name, although

it rhymed, somewhat, with Antoinette’s maiden name.

the youngest of the four sisters by far, Anne, called: “Annie,”

married the salesman on the road with a very different last name,

not a hint, not a syllable resembling her maiden name, which

may have been a source of confusion among the older sisters.

she kept the house, (the house like a beehive)

listed on the city planner's registry

of multi-tenement domiciles as:

"1017 Bedford, West, first floor,"

as well as any young mother could,–– and where

over the usual racket of the interior, her two sons

were often called-out, referred to as "roughnecks"

as opposed to her theatrical, tap-dancing daughter,

three years my elder, and referred to as..

well, let me say with the grace deserved,–– not a "roughneck."

From the archives / Quequechan