PICO

by Ed Tato

I knew Uncle Pico was home
when I walked through the alley and heard
the latest Sinatra tune
strummed to a tarantella or tango beat.

Uncle Pico would be in the kitchen,
in his allilgator shoes
and sleeveless tee,
his tattos and fedora.

he kept a glass of dego red
and freshly sliced nectarines by his side.

Uncle Pico was the only one
who'd smoke in that kitchen,
and he cradled a cigarette
between his lips or fingers
coaxing the smoke
to dance with the notes.

Uncle Pico played at baptisms and birthdays,
first communions and funerals,
weddings and wakes.
but mostly, he played in the kitchen,
watching the rest of us pass by.

he told the family stories,
in bgallads about Aunt Lina's husbands
and Uncle Aldo's stinkeye,
the mayor's mule
and pastrami.

Aunt Lina might join him
on the harmonica,
for blues and bluegrass,
or Johnny Cash -
with my father singing
Sunday Morning Coming Down.

Uncle Pico didn't speak much
when he wasn't playing the mandolin.

he dusted the furniture of his childhood,
moving it back to more familiar spots.

he labeled old photos,
ordered them in scrapbooks,
quizzed me
on who came first:
Sal, Sonny or Syl.

he told stories
and broke off in the middle,
waiting for me to finish.

he fed the chickens in the coop,
plucked fresh tomatoes
from the garden
or grapes from the arbor.

he sat on the front porch
with my grandfather,

smoking,
drinking his dego red,
eating his nectarines,
absorbed by ledgers
he found turning yellow in the cellar.