MOST VALUABLE PERSON

for my son

Not sure if they served plates of baked ziti or
spaghetti at the middle school sports banquet.
I’m sure you didn’t have a salad or green beans.

When your Mom and I entered the cafeteria
in time for the awards, we found a spot at a table
in the back as Science, Social Studies, Gym teachers
who double as the coaches took turns, saying a few
words about players, game recaps, stories of practice.

Medals and certificates, given for participation.
Special awards given to individuals as well.
But you didn’t get an award for fastest runner
on the Cross Country team, nor for scoring the
most goals. Tonight, your name wasn’t called
for the MVP awards for any of the teams.

Your coach said a few words about each player
as they came up to the little stage and just before
it was time for you to be called up, the coach
stopped to tell everyone about the next player,
a respectful student, a solid player, good at defense,
and quite mature for his age. He told the crowd how
he felt about a boy who always shook his hand at
the end of each practice, after each and every game.

With this anecdote, the coach awarded you
and us, your parents the greatest honor of all-
One not made of bronze, or silver,
or printed on a fancy certificate.

NO MORE HALLOWEEN

pull down the shades, turn off the lights,
go to the basement and put the TV on low.
Doorbell’s busted, so they’ll stand and ring
it a few times, but it won’t make a sound.
Years ago he slammed the door, vowing
to never hand out candy again, rotten kids,
driven in from other places, no costumes,
pillow cases opened wide, demanding rudely,
“Gimme candy. Gimme some for my cousin.”

It was different back then. My dad says this
about so many things, wondering why it’s
all changed in the last forty years or so.
He describes faraway places, long gone times.
Again he’ll tell me the story about a lady with
bright orange hair, like Lucille Ball, how she
always wore a dress, an apron, a pearl necklace.
How she’d come out, same time every day
to sweep the sidewalk in front of her pink house.

Jenny always smiled, always paused to look up
between swishes of a yellow handled broom.
Always waved to the kids, but spoke to no one.
Her name was Jenny, Jenny Notaro. I think.
Dad seems to be forgetting some of the story.
Other than that, we knew she was divorced,
no kids, no one seemed to know the details.
But her ex-husband, Jimmy showed up
each afternoon to visit, have a dinner some said,
others chuckled, insinuating they still got along.

Dad says, Jenny became a different neighbor
on Halloween. She didn’t crack the door open
to throw candy into your bag or plastic pumpkin.
Instead she’d invite everyone into her home through
the spotless living room, into her showplace kitchen.
Laughing, Jimmy plopped half gallon tubs of
rainbow sherbet into huge glass punch bowls
filled with Hawaiian Punch and Canada Dry Ginger Ale.

Blood red, iridescent candy apples, lined up on the
counter glowing next to gooey caramel-coated ones
rolled in chopped peanuts. Pies and cookies baking in
the oven, filled the air with cinnamon, vanilla, molasses.
For a few moments on that last day of October, long ago,
the happy couple was surrounded by the neighborhood kids,
who they never really knew, but had all to themselves.
My father’s story always ended with, “Can’t imagine that today.”