Sundays Tom minds me, mama wandering. I

toddle through his rooms eying

girl pictures, so curvy, plump red lips all smiles

puffy lovely negligees: in

old photographs Tom

holds my hand in front of our tenement

digs sand with me at Orchard Beach

mama sunbathing on a towel; fun

papist he is, prayers in his mouth, thick waisted red faced

give you his shirt; on weekends Tom

drinks schnapps in the Poe Cozy Nook down a side street, once

upon he takes me to Our Lady of Refuge, as

we walk to church Tom whispers

just do what all the people do and

I am pleased and rarified, kneel

genuflect eyes down am I holy am I saint am I Jesus?

We move away soon

father back from soldiering and

one night Tom walks home from the bar in the alone dark

mugged killed body left in a vacant lot; we find out

by chance.