Episode 4c: Eredità

Daddy, with your ruddy complexion,
which I found
only after your passing,
in a description by the US military
of a young private, an official account
of rising the ranks
only to be torn down
due to questions of honor,
loyalty and honesty.

Daddy, the picture I carry of you
younger than me,
thin faced and tight lipped,
whitewashed by the cellulose
of time, by my memory
of you ordering a book which said
our family crescent was British
and working in an office
which bleached your complexion.

Daddy, only in dying could you tell me
I was Italian, through Brooklyn,
through Ellis Island,
part of an immigrant tradition;
your love of opera,
adoration of the Dodgers,
the secret sauce of your lasagna,
all of it passing in that last gasp
to your son through pale lips.

email: PoetryPoemPome@mac.com
phone: 70 425 Poems

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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