My father played music on Saturday nights, slept late
on Sundays. We banged in after church, returning
to a kitchen of Holy Land scents, briny olives,
zingy red sauce that snuggled into al dente pasta,
the kitchen a strange riot after days of meat loaf and
fish sticks. Dad poured himself a glass of cold amber,
foamy enough to make a fake mustache with, though
we never did, not after tasting the bitter stuff.
We lunched with the TV on. Romy Gosz trumpeted
to a dance floor filled with locals in their Sunday
best, promenading to polkas and waltzes.
Some couples never stopped twirling. Mostly men
with women, sometimes two women. There weren’t
enough men to go around, I decided. At our house,
we knew not all had made it home, the jolly music
always in the way when we asked to find out more.
Peggy Turnbull has had work published in New Verse News, Poetry Quarterly, Rat's Ass Review, Wisconsin Poets Calendar, and other journals. She is a retired academic librarian who worked in Wisconsin and West Virginia. She is a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets.
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