(upon turning seventy)
Auctioneers roam through dreams,
nudge you to bid, retrieve shards of past:
The stridence of Nazi boots in Paris streets,
Father's breath oozing fermented wines.
Last night I saw the auctioneer
floating on thick clouds.
He spieled, going, going . . . gone,
flitted visions of lemons, slivers of thunder.
How do you build a poem with rain?
Venice shivers under storms,
flood engulfs the Piazza San Marco.
Stranded at the Marcella Inn,
Mother and I look out through lace curtains.
Mussolini's Black Shirts guard the canal.
She pulls me back, pares a lemon,
The skin must steep in shimmery water.
Eyes trained on Father, she gives me a cup.
This is a Cannerino, good drink for bad days.
On the radio a Verdi opera keeps fading,
dislodged by angry men's speeches.
Father explains in easy words,
War’s coming!
I look to see how war enters rooms,
Father's hand reaches for a Triple Sec,
trembling as if caught in a draft.
