Bone Street

With eyes the color of chestnutsmy grandfather carried acrossthe Volturno in burlap sackson his back to save the fareof a seat on the flat woodenferry, I cross the cemeterytempered by the weight of bones,to sit at these graves and listenfor far away bluesup through the wired roots,my father's ship crossing the equatorthe ocean roiling with war,sailors’ riotous rite of passagepunching its hot needlethrough his ear, mother homewaiting, working, wadingthrough shortages and shorelines,Rosie the Riveter, sneaking outlisten, listen, sad sweet smokyhorn down Bone Street.