-The Seasons-

David Britto's family had money.

He was the best artist in 6th grade class

Specializing in crayon drawings of Santa Claus

And other religious notables.

In the parlor of his family's tenement

Sat a snazzy space-heater,—

One with a glowing mouth at the bottom

Displaying its orange fire.

It was bigger than the one we had

And sounded like a gust of wind

When it started-up in winter. 

Ours clanked like an old jalopy.

The Britto's space-heater

Seemed otherworldly.

Ours came from the planet it sat in.

A crooked aluminum pipe

Stuck out of its back, listing upward

And angled into the wall where

A little flower-painted tin plate dressed

The wall's rough-cut hole of the intruding pipe.

In winter, a twin-handled kettle of water
Serving as humidifier, sat on top for a practical,

But unintended purpose.

In the summer, my mother would alter

The space-heater’s identity.

The big pot would be removed to be used for

Cooking spaghetti or heating the bathwater.

A fancy cloth with ends of fringe dressed its top,

And knick-knacks were placed there to jewel its crown

Along with a few chosen members of the family, who

Had their framed portrait photos displayed.

The pictures:

Cousin Patricia, "Call me Patsy"—

Who left the Convent as Novitiate

Breaking the hearts of her mother and father

And in the face of their God before the final vows,

Photographed in pre-convent civvies, made the cut.

So did my sister at nine years,

Frozen in a graceful tapping pose

At the “Eugenia School of Dance”— an attitude

That would follow her through life,

And there was a colorized photo of John “Sonny” Cinquini,

A second cousin, smiling broadly, young, good looking,

Air-brushed smooth and posing bravely in his Korean War sailor suit.

“Sonny,” assigned to a minesweeper in the South Pacific,

Who tumbled down a flight of metal grate stairs

Heading to the ship's galley for a quick cup,—

Who smacked his head on the final flight,

Drifted deeply into coma for over two years

Then died when his brain drew its flatline

On the screen by his hospital bed close to home.

Sure, David Britto's family had money.

But the summertime studio portrait photos

Sitting on top of his family's snazzy space-heater

Looked like they didn’t have any stories to tell.

Quequechan