Carlo Morrissey The Boulevard, July 1962

The Boulevard, July 1962

carlo morrissey

It was the widest street we knew four lanes, two east, two west. We sat on the stoop, blending into seats, waiting for anything.

Across the boulevard Silvio, who never spoke, paced he was thick, grizzly and looked like he could lift a house.

The empty foundry buildings called to us cigarettes, cards, or wait to test our courage face the next train, stand as close as trembling legs allowed eyes shut, wind washed fears away.

Silvio smoked and paced he planted roses in front of a shrine to Our Blessed Mother flowers amid the concrete and asphalt they said he was from Naples.

A case of Narragansett on his porch Silvio paced and paced and paced. Then he was gone, we nodded and crossed the boulevard I grabbed the beer, ran fast down a rutted dirt street.

Later, in Silvio’s parlor, the ‘gansett back on the porch we drank glasses of homemade wine. He spoke of playing the tuba in Italy, that today was the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, and how he missed home very much.