JUST ONE MORE HAND

My parents, well my father,
always felt is was necessary
to stop on the way to our summer home
in the Western Adirondacks
to visit Uncle Morris, who may
or may not have been an uncle
in the blood sense, it was never clear.
It was he who sold my father the cottage
near the small lake, he who now
lived in a nursing home  in Schenectady.

Morris was sweet, frail, but still
wanted my father to play 
a couple of hands of pinochle,
which drove my mother crazy,
but she loved the cottage, 
and Morris sold it to them 
for a song to keep it in the family.

I liked watching them play,
never understood the game,
and hated the name Schenectady,
but we’d always go for an early dinner
at the Chinese Buffet across
from the store Morris owned for years.

PARENTHOOD

Two headstones
Name, rank, branch
of service, dates.

One New Jersey, one
Virginia, both Bittle
neither certain.

An email from
another Bittle, never
knew my father

but his was
William, and in
that moment,

James Owen became
a father yet again
and I complete.

And later still
a single picture
he in the back

row and the mirror
agrees that we
are truly family.

BACK IN THE DAY

My uncle and I would sneak away
from the seemingly endless party,
no one wanted to attend and couldn’t leave.
We go up to my room and turn on the radio.
He’d want to look for the Senators game,
but they’d left town and
no radio could pull in Minneapolis anyway,
but despite Killebrew, Arbitron sealed their fate
and this was Yankees country as well.
I try to pull in C H U M from across the lake.
It played music the local DJs wouldn’t touch,
in which never found their constrictive playlists,
provided by dad’s pal, the local rack jobber
come self-assumed all label A&R man.
Still, Mel would listen with me until he was missed
then try and sneak back to the party, while I
listen Don into the night, hearing songs
I have to hunt for at the record store,
for one thing I knew was that it didn’t
have a section marked Canadian Content Rule.