I walk down narrow streets
in my dream
passing strangers who resemble people
of my youth
the faces so familar
it is as if my uncles/aunts are here
huddled in conversation
politics and sports
though the talk here is of football
not the Brooklyn Dodgers
our hearts broken with each loss
our hearts bouyant with each win
and those damned Republicans
on the loose again
here the talk is of a loss of freedom
the high rate of taxes
what to eat for dinner
and time to drink one’s coffee in peace
the shrugs of shoulders
the helpless hand gestures
I know this world
so far from my own
and yet is my own
it is like looking
in a mirror
I have not felt so Italian
until I walked these streets
of Naples
my name not so musical
until I heard it here
I have not felt so at home
until I closed my eyes
and took in the scent from restaurants
in the air
of these streets
here
in my dreams
seeing the past in the present
looking back in time through faces
I see faces
more often than not
in other faces
it is as if
the people I know/knew
are here in people I pass
on the street in the market on the ferry
these constant reminders
of who filtered through my life
could be disconcerting
if I wasn’t so used to it
there’s Alex reading a book
oh and Carl in the corner
staring out at sea
and Kathy on the bus
sitting next to the old man
who looks a bit like Albert
and there’s Vic
talking to that girl
whose name you can’t quite remember
Marion or Miriam
or something like that
the one who lived up the coast
from you in Malibu
who fell asleep
on the floor
at that reunion
at Joan Barnett’s
when Billy was showing us all
he could be sensitive
and that one there
she looks like that assistant producer
who took you for drinks
at the Brown Derby
something Kessler
her father was a poet
read at the bookstore
and who’s that there
in the grocery store
oops, not her
look away
too much memory there
too much for one day
faces oh faces
staring back at me
and time
is in present continuous
just like you hoped
it wouldn’t be
Leonard Durso 