My brother and I
slide in the wooden booths
and beg for nickels for the juke box
while my dad chats with waitresses
who deliver plates piled high with pasta, sauce, and meatballs.
The tonic tastes better here.
.............So does the beer.

We gnaw at the mighty crusts
to get to the tender white

He ran away when he was fourteen
in 1944
to join his older brother's army.
He came home
............wondering if he was missed at all.

We gnaw at the mighty crusts
to get to the tender white

...........A picture of dad and friends
looking tough, wearing green jackets emblazoned with oversized shamrocks.
all sporting pompadours
but only my dad's French Canadian hair
rising into a perfect wave over his forehead
...........rivaled the masterpieces on the heads of Italian boys.

............"Hey, Paul.
Those are two good looking kids you've got there.
They got their parents' looks for sure," called out the waitress.
"So, what'd yiz want?"
Angela asked, keeping an eye on my dad,
pushing an escaped curl from her eye,
...........craving a cigarette.

We gnaw at the mighty crusts
to get to the tender white