To Nino Espinosa
(1954—1987)
Dear Mr. Espinosa:
your card from 1979 is the best:
your incredible name;
your Mets cap barely on
your impressively big hair;
your mischievous eyes and grin;
your dashing tapered tendril moustache;
your white and light blue batting glove beneath
your Rawlings mitt;
your left index finger sticking out
of the mitt’s slot—
this card remains
worth its weight
in all of the sno-cones
and bubblegum from the wax packs
I bought from Stan
the Ice Cream Man
that scintillating summer,
and all of the times
my tongue turned
bright cherry red.
The Last Night of Spring
The moon is a stethoscope, cold
on my back and chest. My Nonno
Giovanni died 30 years ago
tonight. All of my thoughts fall
in pink, yellow, white, orange,
and red petals onto the kitchen table.
I shuffle in my love seat. An ambulance
wails in the potholed street. Silence
returns, like the flashing light
of a firefly’s belly, which will arrive
in due time—in the verdant grass
above the covers of dirt
where Giovanni sleeps.
Joey Nicoletti was born in New York City; he works in Buffalo.