THE HOMELESS

Who will know their name?

Grapefruit shipped from Florida
lay gutted in someone’s trash -
summer heat - cockroaches
lay eggs – on top of tender white
juice. . .

The name of the dead found
dead yesterday – no one really
knows.

Army greens thrown inside a
bin disclosed for the homeless,
a lost pair of rosary beads dangles
from the metal flap – near
a parking lot, on Congress Street –
where someone died last night.

Lunch was tossed into a can
In front of D’Andriannos
Pizza joint – dinner – half eaten
Over flows onto the pavement
And, the nameless wait until
Daylight ends to empty trash.

When daylight shines between
cement – nameless lay curled
on top of grass – dirt – melting
snow.

The name of the dead – found
last night - no one knows.

Patrons of a boutique quickly
Walk on Congress, their eyes
Focus on cracks in cement –
Never seeing dirty skin, filthy
Clothes – a broken bottle of
Whiskey. . .

The name of the dead – found
In the morning – no one knows.

A young girl in hot pink tights
her leg’s spread, reads a book
resting on her knees, above
Her on red brick – graffiti –
Madonna twice. . .

Detectives question the young
girl in pink tights, she barely
lifts her head, or smiles – and
probably doesn’t read.
She shakes her head, no.
Another nameless will be laid
to rest – without a name on
granite, or mentioned in the
Press.

The nameless – no one knows
or do they give a damn.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

A DOLL LIFELESS ON THE BEACH

At night while sitting
alone on the wide porch
at the beach, I am quite
aware, no one is here.

Something draws me to
a window – as if my eyes
in pain, and staring.

I attempt to leave the porch
but again I am drawn to the window.

While in the dining room,
I sit near a window.
Here in this spacious room,
no one around.

Pictures drawn on paper in
pencil, faces of those
I’ve never met.

For some reason,
I am drawn to
the window.

I believe – I lived on a large
parcel of land, in a large home
with wealthy people and the
ocean - near.

I am drawn to the window

Carriages and dust
flying
umbrellas are held over
heads of all the women.
Men
in black – a carriage white –
women wear long dresses.

I see a wooden fence –
lined with pine trees.

I am small
watching from a wide front porch,
my hair long -
it’s hot.
My little feet tap back and forth -
worried for some
reason.
A sound in the distance –
I turn
to see nothing.
I wait on
the porch near a window.

“Don’t touch the flowers,”
In a clear voice – “The
gardener handles dead
blooms.”

I hear words and no one is near.
I take a walk and see two lions on a path,
I know I have climbed onto the lions back.

A woman comes closer
she is beautiful, draped in a color only
a sea can wear…
a veil of pink.
She is holding a doll – old fashion - too.

When I draw her
she is standing
near the ocean.

Nearby a broken doll
alone on the beach
laying face down
on a broken window
frame

I am drawm to the window.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

CHILDREN of the DARK

Stone houses against
a mountain side, between
bushes of red gardenias
and hydrangeas near
lime and lemon trees,
near olive branches –
and wheat fields.

A street, narrow;
balconies and stoops
where town folk gather
in clusters, similar to
all clusters - along
the edge of the mountain.

Villagers gather to share
secrets - or to be proud;
a cross now pinned outside
off of a cotton slip -
signifying her husband or
son notified her - soon
they shall return for
those he left behind.
Leaving America - a place
he only knew.

A gust of wind - a thin layer
of ash from Mount Etna
finds its way between the
mountain and lay its ash
over the clothes attached
to the olive trees.
Women pray for spring to
bring heavy rains, and keep
rain away in June – for it
would kill buds blooming
on the tree.

Women pray for husbands
to come home, to be happy
in the mountain, filling sacks
with wheat – for the wheat
man – the rich man in town.
This winter a few flakes of
snow crossed the mountain
top – and kissed a palm.

A simple stoop of stone –
where a hen struts by to
enter a home with an open
door, where birds of all
colors – as the trees
flock to hear the music
on the streets.

The homes stand side by
side, deeper – instead of
wide. A simple stoop where
women compare the price
of an artichoke, when few
feet walked – they could
pick another fresh – but its
weight to much to bare.

Pictures of saints are lined
on walls, near a picture of
the Brooklyn Bridge.
One room – one table and
chairs. Upstairs, what
women call a marriage
bed.

At the end of a day when
purple covers the sea, and
a mountain sleeps – when
donkeys are tied in stalls
and children dream – some
stay awake counting stars.

Children hear prayers from
a neighbors home, and cries –
when a letter arrives – knowing
someone else will never cross
the ocean – will never make it
home – back where houses
clustered close, and older
people talk. And in the dark
children hear.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Girls in the City

We jumped off the train without a penny
to our name wearing torn jeans and a
few shirts we found in some trash.

Karen detests Jennie, feeling she’s too
good with her fancy suede jacket; she
grabbed it first.

Now, sitting side by side, shoulder
to shoulder, snuggling like some baby
to its Mama’s breast.

Leaning against some high rise building
burning those shirts in a tin can in the
alley to keep warm.

Karen, she’s going to leave us soon. Her
eye’s are moving back and forth because
she needs drugs. She won’t tell us; we know
she knows all about drugs.

She slipped me something once, and I
pretended to swallow it, stuck out my
tongue and wiggled it around - to prove I did.

Jennie waited – needed a reaction from me
so I wiggled my feet, tapped my fingers and
nodded to music; which wasn’t there.

“I like drug people,” Jennie said with her
drug smile. . .

We all slept from the heat of burning
shirts, in an alley near Broadway – it was
winter – no place else to stay.

Jennie never knew - I never used.

Right angles of light began to wake us
and people hurried along the sidewalk –
we had to move – soon.

“We are all going to be somebody someday.”
I told Karen and Jennie.
“Jennie, you will be a star on Broadway, and
Karen will design jeans or satin gowns.”

I never mentioned I was going to work
inside one of these cement buildings –
probably cleaning floors.

Karen, she complained about dreaming.
But, to hell with her - she can’t breathe
without a bad word from her mouth.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
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