in the ol' days
she'd kill rats with her hands,
and beat up most
any guy fool enough to try her.
and she was mostly afraid of everything:
for which she'd
cower in the bathroom-
telling me how her father always
told she and her
eleven brothers and sisters that
thunder was an
angry and fed up at how they were behaving.
and in the bicentennial year of our country
she lost her husband-
the grief was arduous, long, and
and it's my good brother who
takes care of his resting place.
and when i paid a visit to nana-
leaning over the
window sill - from the
catching a shadow of myself with
her cataract vision-
and every now and then
eye a sliver of world bustling
about on tuckahoe rd.
she'd visit with the world through
rapid fire images on
the her television set
and she missed the toilet occasionally-
but who hasn't.
and I kidded her
all the time about
the young men she was keeping
instinctively opened up
another pack of cigarettes
she'd walk from
the dining room to
the living room to
and back to the
then back again to the dining room
on brothers and sisters dead-
on her son who never calls her-
on her bitchin' back ache-
and that son-of-a-bitch bastard carl, who
left evelyn on her favorite soap opera
ever so softly-
she'd pass wind and
i'd applaud her!
"ain't i allowed to fot?" she'd explain-
"yes! by all means! do it again!"
"smoke has to come out of every chimney, right?" she'd ask.
she was a simpleton-
from immigrant parents-
but no idiot.
she had enough love in
her five foot, 200lb frame as she
had pasta and nicotine
she ate, shit, smoked, slept, waited, and
and she did that time and
she was love incarnate
signora laura rella of bari