Benedict Robert Campion Fitzgerald
twitched in her belly, or he raised a fist,
and came and cried. O red and meager baby,
umbilical, priapic, knobby,
mashed and wrinkled as an old pugilist.
A lyric name he got and a saint’s name,
a third stout name from Pa, cioè Roberto.
Think of this Christian if you care to
filling his giant napkin without shame.
And soon for happy trilled at goldy leaves
by a summer air. What hours our boy would warble.
You find my doting lines intolerable?
Never was infant such under such eaves.
Behave. “I’m being hayve.” With Harpo’s grin.
At three he shook his cap and bells, our jester,
or tented him in a souwester
and fragrant slicker to stay in the rain in.
Never (ah!) to inherit that dripping grove,
in a DC-6 he peered at cumulo-cirrus
“trees” on ocean. (Graciously hear us,
lord of that aircraft gaily named I LOVB.)
Ligurian fry inquired, “Why is your old man
home all day? What mestiere has he?”
“Da notte va fuori a rubare case.”
A penman’s alibi. Tie it if you can.
Off iodine-scented rock pure undersea,
fronded, astir, awaited our explorer.
Noon. With a tentacled small horror
draped on his tines he swam ashore in glee.
Daemonic lightning, ire of rebellious powers
could rend this patient hunter of the polyp.
Bone-ache from one corrective wallop
disabled the parental hand for hours.
Child of my own rage, rippling in Tuscan speech
through five hard winters’ compiti, my Benny,
temi, storie, disegni!
What will the next years teach?
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