To my Father

On this Father's Day, a poem looking back at my relationship with my father...

Oh Dad
so sad…
you never lived the life
I wished you could’ve had.

When you were
a young Italian lad
nothing made you
more glad
than 
to run away from home,
into the arms of 
hot Roman nights
footsteps leaving a trail
of half-baked lies;
and sneak back into bed
under smoky dawn skies
all jazzed that you did
something bad.

So 
next morning,
when your Mom
thwacked you
like a goalie pad,
and two sisters drove
you stark raving mad,
you fled the motherland—
like any sensible teenager—
in a sailor’s suit crisply clad;
which—on your Frank
Sinatra frame—didn’t
look half bad.

And 
when you landed 
on America’s shore, 
no more than a chad
upon the immigration
agent’s grimy floor, 
you headed for
the Windy City,
a naïve desperate lad,
looking to marry a 
Madonna or a whore,
(from which you could’ve had
your pick of the litter);
and wound up working
in your Uncle’s grocery store;
and with the ingenuous charm, 
of a Casanova cad
landed my Mom
in marriage, 
and made
her pay for it 
till the day she died.

It’s really too bad
you squandered your 
existence in that
awful 3 flat pad
on Lorel avenue
where bitter laurels
sprouted atop my head.
Poetry wasn’t just
another teenage fad.
I didn’t mean
to make you mad,
but you poisoned me
with the same ambition:
the desire 
to be free.

And 
once I knew
how stuck I was
in this dysfunctional world,
I wanted to go on the run
like Warren Beatty did
in Mickey One,
into the empty arms of
cold Chicago nights,
a blue-collar cemetery 
that burns
with neon taverns,
where my half-hearted flights
only saw my returns
spattered with the hot grease
of more domestic fights.

Oh Dad,
it’s too bad
you didn’t know
how to be glad,
as you aged;
weighed down as you were
with kids,
a Mother-in-Law
and dogs (were
we all mistakes?)
when you could’ve had
a pretty decent life,
and had not waged
perpetual verbal war
against my Mom
(your wife 
for crissakes!)
And after 
so much time
on the battlefield
crammed in a marital foxhole,
the barrage of harsh words
and daily strife
like so many
unflushed turds
saturated her body and soul
where she endured 
her last 9 months of life
on earth
before her new birth
finally sprung her from that
inhospiceable hell-hole.

And while it pained
you to see her rot
peering out 
from the hole 
which used
to hold your heart,
where now’s buried
a fist of burning coal
deep down
you knew 
it was due 
to your slings and arrows
from the start.
Now 
a year’s gone by
since a stroke knocked you
upside your stubborn head;
and
when you saw her dead
you wished 
you could 
take her place in
the casket instead;
to play out the drama 
of an Italian opera 
which never ends well 
despite all the positive messages
I tried to spread.

Whenever I hear:
“I Will Survive”
(your favorite song)
it reminds me why
you’re no longer alive.

All your life
you wanted 
to be free;
You should have 
been more cautious
with your wish
for that’s what
you got in the end.
Now you know
how powerful 
words can be.

Oh,
I forgot to add
something I know is true:
(although your “love”
was a sham)
Were it not
for you, 
I wouldn’t be 
the man that I am.

Oh Dad, 
too bad
so sad…