Feasting in America



I don’t remember what I ate that day.

The floor was bowed as if

the weight of indecisive feet

had settled it into a tired smile

smoothed by spilled

grease and friction.



I don’t remember what I ate.

Perhaps lasagna,

certainly peppercinos

on a wonderful salad.

We were moving Dad

that morning



from a temporary nursing home

in North Miami

to a nicer place closer to Mom.

His roommate, a raving old Jewish racist,

stung the Black orderly with a bitterness found exclusively



in the beaten and the senile.

Dad, silent and staring,

intently chewing his lip,

had not been attended to

when we arrived at 11:00 am

that muggy Sunday morning.



Most of his clothes were missing.

His front teeth,

knocked out when they revived him

from the near drowning,

were still missing.

I think he knew me as his son.



He walked with the slow shuffle

of Parkinson’s decay, his back

as round as a snail’s shell,

bent over as if he were leaning

on an imaginary cane.

It was an authentic Italian deli



worn but not changed

from years of business,

holding on as the neighborhood changed

from Italian to Jewish to Black to Cuban to Haitian,

always heavy with the smell of garlic,

an olfactory landmark in a world of flux.



I remember walking in line

along the dull glass cases

full of lasagna and hot sausage,

sturdy blue bowls of pasta, white and red sauces.

Our talk was of fresh, steaming bread and how Dad

always says you can tell a good restaurant by the salad.

I don’t remember what I ate that day.

This poem hooked my attention so quickly and sat me down in, sitting in the uncomfortable pink plastic chairs put in "residents" to limit visitation hours. Nice use of encorporating first/last line, makes the reader absorb it a second time.

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Replying to:

Feasting in America



I don’t remember what I ate that day.

The floor was bowed as if

the weight of indecisive feet

had settled it into a tired smile

smoothed by spilled

grease and friction.



I don’t remember what I ate.

Perhaps lasagna,

certainly peppercinos

on a wonderful salad.

We were moving Dad

that morning



from a temporary nursing home

in North Miami

to a nicer place closer to Mom.

His roommate, a raving old Jewish racist,

stung the Black orderly with a bitterness found exclusively



in the beaten and the senile.

Dad, silent and staring,

intently chewing his lip,

had not been attended to

when we arrived at 11:00 am

that muggy Sunday morning.



Most of his clothes were missing.

His front teeth,

knocked out when they revived him

from the near drowning,

were still missing.

I think he knew me as his son.



He walked with the slow shuffle

of Parkinson’s decay, his back

as round as a snail’s shell,

bent over as if he were leaning

on an imaginary cane.

It was an authentic Italian deli



worn but not changed

from years of business,

holding on as the neighborhood changed

from Italian to Jewish to Black to Cuban to Haitian,

always heavy with the smell of garlic,

an olfactory landmark in a world of flux.



I remember walking in line

along the dull glass cases

full of lasagna and hot sausage,

sturdy blue bowls of pasta, white and red sauces.

Our talk was of fresh, steaming bread and how Dad

always says you can tell a good restaurant by the salad.

I don’t remember what I ate that day.