Alan Walowitz Verse-Virtual 2017 October

October 2017

My next door neighbor growing up was my pal, Tony. He was born with a birth defect that bent his spine where it met his hips, which caused him to grow so tall, and no taller. He died when he was not yet 30 years old. These poems are an attempt to capture his spirit, which I sorely miss. More of my poems and more about me can be found at alanwalowitz.com.

Anthony Peter Tumbarello

Where your spine or mine
squared with our legs
when mothers told us
to sit straight in our chairs,
Tony’s listed more than a bit.
When we walked
other kids would stare
and sometimes strangers’d
cross the street to inquire,
Son, what’s wrong with your friend?
as if Tony couldn’t hear
for being so bent.
I was an embarrassed kid,
but he was already a man,
fourteen years old
and full-grown by then--
four-six, at least.
Tony would crane his neck
in defiance, and stretch
all the way to four-foot-seven,
just so he might
politely suggest:
Drop dead, lady,
or
Fuck you, sir.

Tony’s Wake
Anthony Peter Tumbarello (1945-1974)

His body, curled in life,
fit easy in the full-sized box.
A man wouldn’t stand for one
cut for a kid and, God forbid,
made death seem airy and light.
I’d never been to a wake before
but you hear of the work morticians do.
Peeking in his casket
I half expected
the kiss of death
to turn the little toad he was,
my old pal, into a prince,
crowned and all aglow:
no longer a virgin,
lips puckered and set for a kiss
or at least to whistle a tune.
How about little Tony
finally straight and tall?
But, Death, even you,
in your high falutin’ majesty,
you couldn’t uncurl him after all.

Orignally appeared in Tall . . . ish (Pure Slush Press)

Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF