ONE HUNDRED QUESTIONS - NINETEEN SIXTY FIVE

ONE HUNDRED QUESTIONS
NINETEEN SIXTY FIVE


Remember when a smile
lit up your face?
When we passed in the hall
back in nineteen sixty five?

Bob Dylan was telling us
who we were –
what to do –
if we didn’t listen
we would all be dead

We sang, holding hands
as we pretended to be
Sonny and Cher –
“You’ve Got Me Babe.”

Remember me hitch hiking
in front of RPI after spending
money to watch you instead
of Sonny and Cher –

Rocky and I were seating in
the balcony, front row, as I
peered through binoculars
watching you, listening to
“I’ve Got You Babe. . .”

No plans to get home
knowing your father would
be waiting out front of RPI
sitting behind the wheel of
his Cutlass – you weren’t
old enough to drive

It was a winter day when you
received your permit, drove
down to Avenue A, only
sixteen – it was daylight and
you had this old beaten up car

You used the front door –
anyone new, used the front door
then you would shake hands
with the family as they left to
listen in the kitchen

We sat side by side on a red
velvet couch – soon to be given
to my uncle in California –
I was comfortable, rocking in
our rocker from Vermont

Spent hours asking questions
I interviewed you for the first
time -
“Seventeen Magazine.”

One hundred questions
I asked –
One hundred answers
you told me –
Learning you desires
what – really - turned you on
James Bond
Double 07
and that double breasted
navy coat
you found in the attic
you had to say girls with
blue eyes and dark hair –
with that smile. . .

Mother listened from
the kitchen – we lived in
a city flat, called Goose
Hill – but, Schenecatdy
had nicknames for
neighborhoods, and boys,
men – they all had nick
names –

As I continued asking you
questions, I continued to
rock back and forth – not
knowing this would be the
first interview –

Presidential candidates
would take your place on
different chairs.
But, that was nineteen
sixty five – thirty years
before I dared to ask big
shots – questions about
their thoughts –
even one had more then
one hundred questions. . .

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
@2011

Brandy Wine Diner 1959

It's three o'clock
on a Sunday morning,
a grey curtain of smoke
surrounds you - at Brandy
wine Diner.

Two men share a booth,
both sip coffee from small
white cups - their finger’s
play with white bags of
sugar.

Across from them a young
girl stares, into her
personal fog. . . she holds
the wrong side of her cup -

she crushes one cigarette,
lights another - fog thickens.

A man - hung-over, a black and
white counter -leans on his arm’s,
his clothes soiled by coffee
spilled. . .
He peeks between his finger’s
glares into a mirror hung,
below a stack of Rice Krispies,
Corn Flakes, Shredded Wheat.
A face of a stranger.

A gust of wind pushes
the glass door, open . . .
blinded by iridescent green.
Iridescent green - opens
eyes of the man leaning -
on the counter…
shimmering green catches
the attention of the man
reading the paper…
startles the girl smoking her
third cigarette.

A patron struts past
the counter, all eyes stare;
she flops into a booth in
a corner, next to a man wearing
a black leather jacket
Hells Angels - scrolled on his back…

I reach, poke my finger into a
slit in the red upholstery,
picturing the person who
held the knife.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all work copyrighted

MY FATHER'S MORNING

Grandmother had to be
dancing upstairs in her
kitchen - her radio blaring.
When her friends arrived -
all talking half English -
And, my mother said,
"It's too much noise."
But, the noise never stopped.

Father, he invested in a
bigger radio - more noise,
unlike grandmother did
following the death of his
father - it was tradition
to remove all the tubes
from the big - radio in her
parlor - respect.
So father never listened
to the "War of Worlds."

The day father's father
died, it had to be the
worst day of his life. . .
His father laying in
the marriage bed, his head
resting on a pillow -
a pillow stitched with
grandmother's hands
"I Love You" in Italian.

My grandfather, his head
resting on the pillow
whispered to his son,
his last request. . .

"One more cup of water
before I die."

Grandmother paying the
milkman on the front
porch, and father ran
down the steps - he
had not shed a tear -
yet filled with fear. . .

Father grabbed his
mother's arm, pulled
her away - pulled her
up the front stairs
then to his father's
room.

Father's baby brother
sank to the floor -
near the stained
woodwork in the door
way of his father's
room, and his second
son stood holding
the empty cup of water.

Nancy Duci Denofio