A Neighborhood Echoes (On Conn St)

In December you show up tasteless, tacky, no shame,

With lit up rooftops and headless carolers, a choir without song.

Discotheque mangers shelter a blinking baby Jesus, but the star isn’t lit. Shephards on high, hollow plastic figures overlook faded gardens. 

They proudly display Madonna on the half shell, coated with snow, halos of white dust 

shining on soulless figures.

Blinking lights, fading figures, plastic, empty 

 

There is something here that stands out amidst the vulgarity. 

More pride, more passion, more sorrow 

Can you hear the stories of the Greeks, the Italians, the old families? 

They are fading, blending into new voices of pride, passion and prejudice. New strangers from big places Africa, India, Brazil 

Pride blended with suspicion, prejudice, familiarity, admiration 

Clashing, sharing, blaring, shaking with love, passion, volume and boldness of being. The old meets the new. 

 

The working mothers Now fade, back into the squall. 

There are housewives waving to housewives through kitchen windows. 

“Check on the old lady, it's half past eight!” and Good Morning America on the TV set isn’t reflected in the glass. 

On the stoves the heavy metal pots are bubbling and the wooden spoons don’t rest. These are ancient spoons for spanking, simmering, savoring, teaching. 

Plastic flowers on plastic tablecloths, knickknack mice and statues of saints on windowsills, there is nothing precious, but everything is precious in this space. 

Tables coated in flour, big hands over little hands, rolling pins flattening the dough. Smooth skin, brown hands, green veins, dirty nails.

 

A drunk passed out on a green couch. 

His children love him, he takes them to the zoo. 

His wife fears him. Fears his sloppiness, his stink, hollow caresses and unbearable weight.   He will nearly set his house on fire in a liquor induced nap. Kicked out and taken back 20 years later, slackend and silent, to be bathed, brushed and tucked. Wheeled along a beach in Miami by a woman with enduring duty, that real kind of coarse love. 

As his thoughts drift to the bodies rolling out to sea, a passerby might glance at two figures, man and woman, with two types of strength. 

Surviving. Loving in a way… 

Duty. 

Now an ode to these women who loved, who were not in love, who were not loved, Until the End.

Cigarette ash, sparks, slow burning, while little innocent ones drape on green couches like the snow on sagging branches. 

Everything catches the light and becomes smaller, spare. Reflections 

There are nurturing hands, mothers, daughters, sisters, wives. 

Men stumbling in and out of The Sons of Italy, chasing skirts and trying to catch dreams lost somewhere back there in oil, blood and tears. 

The women gather them up in cars they learned to drive when there were no “boys” around, And drag them home. 

The same women who were beaten with shoes by their mothers for staying out too late at the cinema with these boys, are now protecting them. Why did their mothers teach them so wrong? And yet they are still here stronger for it all. Forever pillars, even in the cold nights. 

 

Inside, warmth, simple stories, nostalgia. 

Outside, follow your breath. 

Headless carolers topple in the wind 

The blinking christ child sputters, then fades. 

The power lines buzzzz and the star flicks on red, green, white. 

The Madonna sheds an icy tear as the red ribbons blow, on wreaths that will fade brown into the spring.