THE WlND at the END of the DAY

By Robert J. Savino

It was the wind at the end of the day Rocking crowded ships at sea Steaming from Naples and Abruzzi To Ellis Island and the New World Where family names were countries Anglicized avoiding assimilation Immigrants Apprehensive of sardine-packed sanctuaries Quarantined by smallpox Were processed and purged To toil in dust clouds of dreams I was too young to remember these stories Frog-throated voices of men Speaking olive-toned language Handshakes, kisses, hugs Passionate men even in America Icemen or bakers Grandfather was a factory worker Laboring to shape a living In New York City's ghettos Every day but Sunday I remember Sundays . . . day of rest Church Breakfast Chasing chickens through the garden While garlic splashes and sizzles in hot oil Sunday is always Sunday But now, many memories forgone By moming phone calls to Century Village And afternoons Sitting in a strange garden with grandfather No chickens, no fruit, no vegetables The breeze bending the pine trees E' il vento, al confine del giorno It's the wind at the end of the day.