From Naples through customs to Mulberry Street
the first of my ancestors came,
then uptown to Harlem and organized heat,
wise guys—Pleasant Avenue fame.
Carmela and Anthony spawned their own line,
apart from the cousins in Kings,
of gamblers and singers in Vaudeville design,
card-playing with pawned diamond rings.
Tucked over in One-Hundred-and-Nineteenth Street,
the immigrant family grew,
first Cath’rine and Joseph, then Michael, Tom, sweet
‘Scarole’, John, the twins, Palmy too!
But Joseph he married a half-Irish lass,
her mother indentured and dear,
whose four-thirty tea-time filled many a glass,
laugh-lilting with never a tear.
Theresa bore Joseph nine children through time,
of whom only seven would live,
the second of which was my grandfather’s rhyme:
cigars, checkers, lessons to give.
Fresh Charlie was raised lyricizing on stage,
performing with Millie his sis’
in old New York’s theaters, spending his wage
on cards games and women for bliss.
His Lady Luck ran out far more than saved him
from bets placed to dig out of debt;
to ‘school’ he was sentenced with vigor and vim
along with Luciano to vet.
Now Grandpa would ask us just what we would do
while roaming the streets with a stack,
if some guy punched him in the nose, and I knew
the right answer was “punch him back!”
In red wine he poured a whole can of cream soda,
reclined in his white undershirt,
a meatball-ricotta-fusilli pagoda,
and plenty of room for dessert.
Far more than my grandfather’s tough-guy demeanor,
the thing I remember the most
is when I explained that respect is a gleaner,
he raised his own glass with a toast.
The stories I’ve heard about all those Italians
—the evidence of all their kicks—
play out with Don Corleone’s battalions
each time I re-watch Puzzo’s flicks.
INSTANT NOODLES 