My Private Wobegon

stories from home

Matthews Avenue, Bronx, N.Y., September '78

By Nancy Haiduck

As the sun rises, the old man
in trousers and undershirt sits
on the back porch and listens
for tomatoes and zucchini to grow
in the small plot before him.

A Vietnam veteran slumps
on the steps of Our Lady of Solace,
his needle shuffled by children
who blink in the sun
on their way to school.

In her slippers and housedress,
Nona has mopped the linoleum stairs
of the four-story, red-brick house
she owns and now sits in a folding chair
in the shade, her poodle resting beside her.

She keeps watch on the block,
as fragile as your great aunt's
China teapot wrapped in tissue,
tucked under a lace cloth
in an unlocked chest in the attic.

Behind the first-floor windows
Gabriella sets out pasta
that dried on racks in the kitchen a few hours ago,
bread from Dominic's bakery,
plums, a glass of red wine for Ezio.

Comfortable in his maître d' tuxedo,
Ezio gets ready for his job at the Waldorf.
A red-checked napkin under her chin,
their baby in a high chair gurgles,
Pane! Uva! Mama mia!

From the frame house next door,
Maria calls for her little son,
Anthony! Anthony!
A church bell cries on the hour,
Anthony! Anthony!

Maria's grandfather delivered ice
on Matthews Avenue years ago.
She married Jack, a teacher, who drove
to work this morning in his '68 Volkswagen.
Nona sees him walk home this afternoon.

He ducks into Dominic's
who tells him an uncle died,
They cut out his heart.
The baker's teenage daughter tangles
string around a box of biscotti.

Gabriella and Maria lean on their brooms
under an elm, the sidewalk swept
of gum wrappers, popsicle sticks, and leaves.
The perspective repeats to the end of the block
and the next, like an image in mirrors.

Later, in the dwindling light after dinner,
families will sit close together on porches,
teenagers will straddle rails, children will sprawl
on steps. Old men will play cards under leafy
grape arbors strung between sideyard garages.

Around the corner
the Vietnam veteran will nod out
on the steps of Our Lady of Solace.
The priest will prepare for a funeral,
not necessarily his.

---

Nancy Haiduck
Nancy Haiduck lives in and writes from the Bronx, N.Y., where she is working on her first book of poetry, entitled "My Own Romantic Bronx." She won First Prize in the 2002 Janice Farrell Poetry Competition sponsored by National League of American Pen Women, San Francisco Bay Area Branch, and has published her poetry in Facets and in BigCityLit. She earned Bachelor's and Master's degrees from The City University of New York, and has taken writing courses at The New School. She is married to jazz clarinetist Neal Haiduck.