Sundays at Lena's

my childhood

recollection of my grandmother

from

South Philly,

is one of a short

stout woman

with a flowered apron.

a high

operatic voice,

and black hair

curled on top of her

head.

i see steam

on her thick glasses,

pasta,

water boiling. i smell

sausage

and onions,

garlic. my eyes

are even with

a long table draped 

with a  white apron

full of sweets 

for later.

there's wine, always wine,

cheap red wine.

and then there's noise,

so much noise

in English and Italian

as the house

fills up and Sunday shoes

and heels

click on the marble stoop

scrubbed clean

for the occasion.