-reflections from the opening night of the three night viewing-

requiem:

you once asked: how could I remember that car?

I said: I remember everything.

a rare automobile on the corner owned by one of us.

a used 1950 4-door Pontiac Chieftain.

I remember Russel Silvia in the backseat

brutalizing a vulnerable, but acquiescent Albert Ragonezzi.

I remember crazy Michele Joseph

coxing a lesser kid to drink mercurochrome 

from that same backseat,

convincing him that it tasted like strawberries.

I remember Priest hearing our confessions

through the open windows

as the Pontiac idled before the white shingled rectory,

the dashboard radio crooning Lesley Gore: “it’s my party

and I’ll cry if I want to.” 

I remember the anticipation of your first real date from behind the wheel.

your track record wasn’t good, but suddenly 

you had a car which didn’t belong to your father.

I remember the morning when you turned your back on the Church,

driving to “Sambo’s Diner” on Pleasant Street with the full load of us,

and for a moment becoming our collective hero.

that first "real" date was a bust. maybe she had her reason.

reflecting, I can reason the reason why.

but you found yourself driving away from the steps, leading

to the porch of her house with the coolness of a measured attitude. 

you didn’t peel-out in anger, or linger with the emptiness of rejection.

first gear, then second, then third, each from the column

at a pace that spoke of your indifference.

a Gazarro sister as I recall. the younger of the two.

yeah. she was something. and you,–– driving from Weetamoe

to the corner of Bedford and Stinziano where we gathered

waiting for your tale of love's first experience,

and you,–– pulling up to the curb in the heavy "Chieftain" empty-handed

as if it was just the start of another night.–– like you didn’t give a shit.

what a car.

that’s how I can remember.