Joe

Things're astir in the kitchen, constant with sibilant tides And the clatter of several wares plied at once. There in the middle of it all the sorcerer Joe oversees his purview, Coaxing his sauce to its signature point. Until a sudden wisdom has him banking left to prod and divine The yams' give. Claps hands and he's switching right again, his hands busily Dicing, busily rinsing & wiping, quick, attentive hands at turns With the bird and au gratin— never lost to the boiling water The old Indian in him will soon preside over, still as quiet pools, A solus to the billowing cast of steam, saying, "Nah, g'wan! Go 'way." He's got it. "Drink," he says. "Whatcha want? Dov'é vino?" Claps hands again and mugs a swoon for the Polaroid, Distracted at last from contemplating the tests, From counting them now, far removed from his language In his creaking cottage high in the Appenini. At his back the light's gone blue at the hills, And what's oncoming night continues to rise from the valley floor, Enduring slopes and small, crested villages, until what is not under blue, That deepening scrim of blue, surrenders its final dapple and winks out— dark And completed To complete. A breath that bears reflection: "Don't ever get old."