there’s an old cassette buried in a pile of leaves.
it’s only May but the leaves still swirl a bit;
exposing more of the cassette;
it’s on a downtown street in front of a house where
an italian family lives and has lived for many generations;
aunts and uncles, grandma, children above the garage.
there’s prosciutto served on sunday after church and
as always.the kids line up slices on paper plates and
pick the meat apart with their hands;
the same oily finger tips now turn their smart phone keyboards slimy.
grandma josephine still walks around the block
certain the cement is giving her a foot massage,
but she keeps the secret to herself and says instead,
“just getting some air.”