The Wizard of Words

The gift of narrative my father had.
Conflict became adventure in his hands.
His penitentiary of poverty
During the Great Depression was reformed
Through humorous accounts that made us sad
We weren’t born yet, rationed for after.

In the uneasy partnership of two
Tongues, English and Italian, he trimmed lines
To master his material. Threads were
Slight that tied him to joy but using text
He wove strong clothing that protected him.

Instructions were unwrapped in the produce
Department of a store when customers
Demanded better fruit. He pared away
The bad parts and in this, too, he learned more
About great storytelling: minimize,
Select. Though later narratives would be
Composed by losses and bad choices, his
Telling restored weight to its proper place,
His words at dinnertime kept holding us
Through sunsets in a fiery embrace.

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