Chasing Brooklyn

Sat., Jan. 7th--Brooklyn:

In a funeral home

there's no cross to give you hope.
There's no bible to give you peace.
There's no minister to assure you all is well.

In a funeral home . . .

There are still flowers which I love.
There are still people who I know.
There is still death which I hate.

In a funeral home . . .

There is a family without a son.
There is a band without a guitarist.
There is a school without a classmate.

In a funeral home . . .

There is a coffin with a boy.

Sun., Jan. 15th--Nico

Spaghetti Sunday

is my favorite day of the month.
The third Sunday of every month,
Ma makes a big batch of spaghetti with meatballs,
and relatives fill our house like fish fill a net
on a good fishing day.
The guys eat and watch football or basketball or baseball,
depending on the season,
while the girl eat
and talk births or weddings or funerals
depending on the month.
Ma's spaghetti slid into Lucca's heart as a toddler
and never left.
I know when she makes it,
she thinks of him,
how he'd come in and ask for a sample of sauce
as it simmered on the stove.
She'd fill a wooden spoon just for him.
He'd slurp the sauce.
She'd reach up and wipe his chin.
He'd say, "Perfection, Ma."
She'd smile, looking at him, and say, "Yes. It is."
I always wondered,
did he know she wasn't talking
about the sauce?