Random Thoughts of An Obese Mind

For my father, Ignazio Treppiedi, who has been cutting hair for over 65 years

Pop stands before his chair
at Vito's, men commission
contemporary masterpieces.

"A little off the top."
"Make the sideburns short."
"Buzz me, paesan."

Pop viewed hair as a canvas.
Every customer a showpiece.
Flick of his wrist - snap!

The apron drapes just
short of choke hold. Scissors
conduct brush strokes, snip

excess like fat on a steak.
Straight-edge razor, precision
shave, nary a nick. Thousand

bees buzz stubble away
from the back of the neck.
Pop steps back to admire,

flick of the apron - SNAP

"Next!"

Ignazio is an intellectual, but
not in a book sense.
When he reads, he prefers maps
He never travels without one

Within days of arriving in America
he was faced with an epic challenge:

the New York City Subway System

His test began as most do:
He was lost.

Ignazio approached a police officer
his baton swinging ninety degrees
slapping his palm; ready for trouble

Ignazio was here
He needed to go here

"Sono perso. Lei puņ aiutarme?"

The officer escorted Ignazio to a staircase
"Your train is right down the stairs.
Okay?" Then he turned and
began slowly walking away.

"Figlio di puttana."

To Ignazio, it was a maze of concrete, steel
and people who couldn't understand him

From behind, a tap on his shoulder
followed by a wiggling index finger

Ignazio was lead to the platform
As his train approached, he was instructed
to board now. But before leaving,
one final instruction:

"Non chiamarme figlio di puttana. Capisce?"

Welcome to America

We climb up to the rooftop
to witness the end of an era,
tanks like giant thimbles.

Sunrise draws a haze-laminated
morning in dull pastels.

Pop eulogizes about lunch
at the base of Tank #1

Ray's steel stomach
consuming hot red peppers
like Life Savers.

Mario's diet plan:
six ounce can of tuna
in a large paper bag,
the illusion of a feast.

Feeney tells stories,
Irish accent thick
as his deli sandwich.

The inside ripe with
the invisible presence
of natural gas.

In an instant, all
is reduced to rubble.

Pop recalls the
postcard panoramic
view from the top:

how the City, Brooklyn,
Queens looked linked as though
kidnapped by one another.