She lived alone in a little green house,
that deep dark green that is almost black,
and always sad.
 
The walls of the tiny house
were papered with smoke
and the smell of brandy.
The heavy alcoholic drapes
were covered with lurid green
Brandywine blooms
looking as if they might catch fire.
 
She had a chihuahua
shaped like a bowling ball
with pencils snapped in half for legs.
The dog’s eyes ran.
It snorted.
It coughed when someone knocked on the door.
 
She had three grown sons.
Danny, the college boy,
anxious and so thin
he rattled when he walked.
The Institute would let him 
come home at Christmas
if he didn’t touch the cutlery.
 
Eddie, the Good Humor man,
had hair like Elvis
and teeth the color of mustard.
It was exciting when Eddie came to our street,
Turkey in the Straw
on a hot summer afternoon.
He’d give me free ice cream
and show me his gun.
 
The youngest brother, Petey, 
was an ex-pro fighter,
a bantom weight,
a kid who could knock you out
with body shots,
a kid whose face was poisoned
by the rosen on the gloves.
Petey, whose face fell apart,
melted, ached, warped, morphed,
wept with open sores
that looked like bleeding maps,
Petey who never left his house,
not for the rest of his life,
not for anything.
 
After Uncle Tommy died
Tanna lived alone,
loved to drink and smoke
and once in a while
someone would pick her up
and take her dancing.
 
Ninety-nine years old
and she loved to dance.
 
At Christopher’s wedding
at Lou’s Pizza,
which later become 
The Route 5 All Faith Memorial Chapel,
she saw me standing out front 
smoking a cigar.
She strutted up to me,
pocketbook locked on her elbow,
unfiltered Chesterfield between 
her pointer and middle finger,
the back of her hand facing me,
the hinge of her wrist
flashing her unlit cig.
 
Hey you got a light?
 
Yeah, Aunt Tanna, I got a light, I said, 
illuminating her hoary painted face in the matchlight.
 
Thanks she said.  
What’cha doin’ later?
 
I said, It’s me Johnnie, Your nephew.
 
Yeah.  That’s nice, right? she said.
What’cha doin’ later?