Padre Mio

"Padre Mio" by Giuseppi Martino Buonaiuto My father: all he wanted was a little, Just a little, peace & quiet. The War, that so-called "Good War," Had given him neither. And afterwards, The peace & quiet he sought Was mainly for his turbulent, disquiet mind. No longer blowing up bridges, or killing Nazis, He spent his post-war years in the building trades, Employed by The Brothers Levitt— Shrewd, Semitic Kings of Suburbia-- Leading the single-family housing boom. He earned our daily bread Hammering nails & sawing two-by-fours, The Construction Site: far from quiet dawn to dusk, Creating daily new acoustic trauma, Canceling out all hope of either peace or quiet. Given the cutthroat competition for jobs, He learned a new kind of stress, as more & More vets--soldiers & survivors like him-- Coming home, anxious to get on with the Business of life, scrambled for paychecks. He also learned sarcasm, his cynicism Masking a failure to cope with Cold War hysteria. And then out of nowhere came labor saving, Electric tools, like the Skill saw, LORD OF CACOPHONY. Decibels: whining, screeching & shrill. No Quiet. No Peace.