Nina Romano

Sunday in New York

Some people ride the bus the length 
of Manhattan's 5th Avenue, taking in the sights.

They know what it means 
when lightening shrieks across a dry sky—

I saw it once in periphery, 
but all I could take in was the man 

with tastes the same as mine.  
Ah, at least I thought they were—

but youth, they say, is blind. 
I figured I'd hooked that guy 

with savory stories of friends & family, 
but in truth, he hooked me.

I like my Sundays wet & wild—
drunk on wine & family ties—

I love to cook like Nonna did, 
a kitchen filled with pungent 

aromas: tomatoes boiling down 
into a thick red broth for pasta—

that Brooklynites call gravy—
& fried zucchini to spread on top. 

But oh how I suffered for love 
of that bus-rider in the city,

the one with the portfolio
pictures oozing with pride and hope.

Oh, how I ached for love of kin—
Though he'd have kept me

a clichéd wife—winter barefoot, 
summer pregnant. But I re-learned myself, 

gazing in a mirror, questioning, 
dozens of times a day. 

There I am! Naked, still young, 
wounded & abused,

forlorn but feisty, reciting  
prayers for love still with desire! 

Shit or shite, as me Irish 
bastard bus-rider said.

Here I stand, cooking Sunday dinner 
for the kids, humming by a pot 

of lamb and Guinness stew, 
& at the table, telling Blarney tales, 

of his return, wondering all the while, 
was I wrong to kick him off my bus?


© 2009 Nina Romano