My Italian Father
Immigrant of past he took to the soil like a neophyte soldier
protecting each tomato and basil plant with his bare hands
he showed no inhibition when it came to baring his shoulders
and digging fenced up holes in the ground, by early morning
as he whistled a tune he worked contentedly in his little yard
away from the bombast sound of his bocci rink counterparts ,
he was animated by the first sun of morning and tanned dark
beneath the smolder of a rolled up cigarette and salty breath
The lecherous stares of Canadian Lolittas were never returned
for he was a loyal husband. Abruzzo born he contained love
and gave it to his family with the fierceness of a mountaineer
his Alpine hat hung on the hook, as a reminder of where he
had found his beatific moments long ago ;
Providence had it that he find a good job at a local hospital
washing sheets and beddings. He never floundered far from
home for his children were always on the wait for his smile
his dolorous history, it was never shared as much as his joy.
He was a wonderful father who taught me how to add,
with sense of my sensibility, … best friend I ever had.
Sponsor: John Hamilton
eight word free verse challenge
Copyright © Pixie Dust | Year Posted 2019
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