If I were to ask what you’d like, it might be to say something kind about you,
Mention something from the past remembered with love.          

And so I do. Spaghetti sauce on the bus!
You getting up at dawn to cook it, I carrying a pot
Across two states to Princeton, New Jersey    

Where my professor lived      
And where
Students met to read their poems
Eating the sweet red specialty          
Lugged up and down stairs under a huge lid.       

No one could buy that kind of cooking, at least in those days,
Although now of course                      

There’s a restaurant on every corner            
I don’t know how I asked you, father, to prepare this dish
Or whether in fact you offered it knowing
Your meal was rare in American houses.

You remained at home that day while I entertained. 
I think you hoped to hear them say how sensitive you were,
A loving father, and so they did, admire you this night, poets
Heard by candlelight, a fireplace, a stove.
In a different room far away, you most likely wished I’d say
They liked it, Italian food, something different for me to share. Perhaps
I would say good of you. I’ll bet you went to bed easily: this time I’ve made her happy.


Copyright © by Grace Cavalieri. Used with the permission of the poet.