NOTE TO HEAVEN

NOTE TO HEAVEN

It has been so long since you left.

Tell me, how could something stab you in your heart?

Remember when you brought your son to New York City?
You were happy when you left, holding his hand, waving
from the train. Grandmother told me, “He looked like a
gangster.” I guess you seldom wore a suit.

Remember the apple tree, pear, and cherry… they are
all dead too. The house is getting old, run down, but
I still visit. Did they call it Goose Hill in 1928?

I wish you were walking with me, talking to me, holding
my hand when I was a child. I never knew you.

Women in the neighborhood work, wear pants, and
drive cars. Some don’t believe in marriage, or children,
and some women choose to have children without
a husband. You had your marriage planned: three days
and you were married.

I wonder if you felt pain, as Grandmother, the night
your son died? That was the beginning of the end, wasn’t it?
Now, so many people have passed away, or they live alone
without family or friends.

I still want to know - how did something stab your heart?

Remember when you told the boys not to climb the old
water tank, but they didn’t listen. The brick building in the
alley, the one where fruit was stored, it still stands; as children
we etched our name on brick.

Did you know you were leaving? Did you?

People commute to New York City by Amtrak, in no time.
Trains move fast. And, no one makes home made wine, or
gathers on a Sunday for a feast around the old maple table.

Were you sad, when you had to leave? Did you know?
Did someone stab you in your heart? Or, was it really a crate?

Down Street is empty, stores you would remember are torn
down. That railroad bridge crossing Erie Boulevard
near your home on Green Street is still there; but someone
robbed the sign, the city designated your green house by the
old tracks, historical.

You were a good man, an honest man with a family.

Did you watch from heaven when the boys sat around
the table and burned the mortgage? It was the best day of
their lives.

Grandmother never placed a thing in the bow window
where you laid inside a casket. They drained your
blood into a tub, in your own bathroom.

Your friend, the one blown up in his car in front of a
hotel, he was on his way to testify on your behalf? He
must be with you now. All you did was work hard, and
deliver fruit; but the fruit men didn’t want to pay.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

SHARING SPACE

SHARING SPACE

Crossed a linoleum floor
to a paisley spread,
newly weds
side by side in
separate beds - two
children shared a
heated room; one sucked
her thumb, one wet
her bed.

His Uncle's boots untied,
perched on a stool near
a metal sign - selling
old stuff, “Antiques,” he
said.

Cribs, pillows, one old
blanket hung to divide
a living space; his new
family all crammed
into one room -
Is this their honeymoon?

“Stay put, lots of space
right here, near the beach,”
his Uncle John tugged on
a sunburned arm.

Many a night we slept
on wet sand - youth
was on our side, and
traveled long distances
counting stars, counted
quarters for a hamburger,
but a place like this
should be torn down for
the sake of two children
laying side by side -
two children asleep
with toes sticking out of
the rail of a crib.

That night eighteen
wheelers cruised on a
beach road going eighty
miles per hour,
afraid to shut your
eyes -
as head lights
beamed into our room.

By morning light, while
pelicans were playing on
a dock – feet tip toed
passed a hanging blanket;
heard a couple snore -
glanced at two children
sharing a crib: sheets
the smell of urine.

Left paisley spreads and
separate beds, newly weds,
and children sharing one
small crib – in one room
among antiques, on a
beach they told us they
lived.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

THE CEMETERY PARKING LOT

Cemetery Parking Lot

Here near the front door
near push carts -
near blue light specials -
watching a lady from the
salvation army, ringing a bell -
swinging a red bucket,
half smiling,
tilting her head -
half smiling -
near double doors -
the front entrance to
K-Mart -

I want to wait inside
our car - where a
cemetery surrounds
the hospital on the hill,
behind garbage bins -
near employee parking
where you can smoke...
I want to wait inside
the car while you
purchase paper towels,
toilet paper, garbage
bags, soap, and fabric
softener -

I wait in the car play
with the crank out window,
slip my fingers over
the steering wheel -
feel where a horn plays
music, feel a knob
which turns on wind shield
wipers - a knob -
to twist for headlights -
I wait in the car - remove
my shoes, toes touch a
brown - thicker - carpet
you replaced after you
spilled paint from a
hardware store -


I wait inside the car -
blow on windows draw
stick figures on glass -
blow on windows draw
houses, balloons and
cats -

I wait inside the car,
cover my legs with your
old navy blanket, rest
my head on a padded
arm rest - close my
eyes

and, I wait inside the
car - falling asleep -
listening to a bell held
by a half smiling lady
near double doors -
opposite the cemetery
where you were laid
to rest.

Nancy Duci Denofio
"What Brought You Here?"
published June 2010
Dystenium LLC