Two Poems by Al Ortolani

Confetti Cannons

My favorite television anchor
takes cover below the media stage,
arms protectively over his colleagues,
the camera on its swivel,
the fountain, the hill to Liberty Memorial.
My phone begins to fill with texts
until I can account for my family, all
except for my oldest grandson. He’s sixteen
with a girlfriend at his side. I hope
to catch them jaywalking Pershing Avenue
towards Crown Center. Both
are athletes and can run without tiring.
They have drilled for active shooters
since grade school.

When my grandson learned to walk,
I let him climb the stadium wall
at the university. I kept my hands
around his waist like a belay.
I gave him a boost over the lip
so he could sit and see the field,
empty in November, a cotillion of colors:
green turf, white hash marks,
red and gold endzone paint.
Game papa, he said,
a bluejay, a crow, a late autumn bee.
I kept my grip on his legs,
his small gravity of muscle.

Today, in front of the television,
there is nothing to hang onto
except parade coverage, audience
running east, police running west
with guns drawn. My arms are not
long enough to reach him.
My hands hold a smartphone
without answers.

*

Cuban Missiles for Children

My grandfather frightens me,
building a concrete bunker in his backyard.
He fills 5-gallon cans with water.
My father donated a first-aid kit.

Yankee, my hyper-active dog,
is hit by a car. At the new school,
I walk myself to the playground,
and try to blend with other children.

They all have missile stories.
We make a game of hiding. One boy
learns to open his mouth so wide
that he can swallow himself.

Soon, he is just a mouth
on the blacktop. We kick him around
like a rubber ball. One day he lands
in the bushes and no one can find him.

The teacher is frantic. The boy
has been coloring brilliant rockets.
She carries his portfolio to the counselor
and they telephone his parents.

When the mouth is brought back
into the classroom, the teacher tells us
it is impolite to stare. Tight-lipped,
he colors flames on his missiles.

*

Al Ortolani’s newest collection of poems, The Taco Boat, was recently released by NYQ Books. His first novel, Bull in the Ring, was just published by Meadowlark Press. Ortolani, a husband, father, and grandfather, is currently entertaining the idea of becoming a hermit. However, his wife prefers the company of the neighborhood feminists, and his dog Stanley refuses to live without treats.