Houses of brick
spaced tightly within,
seen from the front:
the vines of grandpa’s tomato plants
long and wild

there’s barely enough room
for the sun, the grill and the grime

for a small boy
it’s a forest
of Italian relatives,
scurrying legs and
loud conversations--
his round nanny brushes
herb oil on chicken,
sweats over dinner--
as Uncle Vin throws a ball against the stoop,
his Sheepdog topples over three bowls
of macaroni

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