A Neighbor’s Death

By on Apr 13, 2010 in Poetry

Weak spring sunlight on sidewalk

They fall like toy sentinels, one by one,
before the entrance to the battered door
that traps in heat and keeps away the hoar
frost of impending grief. Youth’s taped rerun
of first bliss is worn. Spring’s warm, schoolmarm sun
now sports the wan demeanor of a store
clerk. Life grants me just enough light to pore
over receipts before the workday’s done
and the store closes. Former bustling streets
are empty and their neon signs torn down
along with delis selling ice and sweets.
Grown kids have moved their own kids out of town.
I’m at the crossroads where the graveyard meets
the grandson in his graduation gown.

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About

Frank De Canio is a maven of letters of the alphabet. Still being born in New Jersey, his cultural home is New York City, where he spends most of his waking time and where his search for Life’s meaning and the origin of the universe has taken him from Avenue A in lower Manhattan to the upper Westside, with a few diversions to Brooklyn. Nonetheless he’s written many sonnets (more sonnets than checks!) which he will continue writing until he gets them right. He loves music of all kinds, from Bach to Zap Mamma and Amy Winehouse. Shakespeare, Sylvia Plath, Ginsburg, Dylan Thomas are some of the writers he enjoys reading. He attends a philosophy workshop in Manhattan where people talk and eat Chinese food, and then go out to wash it (the philosophy) all down with a few drinks.