Joe Dolce: Four Poems

Arl

 

The first memorable thing

about my accountant Arl

he precisely tapped the large calculator keys

with his right hand without looking once

eyes fixed to the left on my pencil-scribbled figures

his error-free tally finished

he pulled a Zippo out

give me all the cash in your wallet he said

why? I asked

It is completely unnecessary to pay all this tax

so you might as well burn the money now

later I discovered he was a practicing Catholic

a volume of Martin Luther King’s

Strength to Love pride-of-place

amongst tax and law tomes

Arl invited me to his Malvern home

for early Monday morning training sessions

escorted quickly through a hardly lived in mansion

in the rear garden was a fully functioning boxing ring

Arl taught me a martial arts kata he invented

based on the Sign of the Cross

one step forward edge of right hand out and straight up

in the name of the Father

one step backward edge of hand down to waist

and of the Son

(he was an elegant mantis)

small step forward hand passing to the left

and of the Holy …

step backwards hand passing to the right

… Ghost …

both hands together head bowed

Amen

warmed up he suddenly tossed me

a pair of red boxing gloves

put these on and get in the ring

ok now hit me as hard as you can

I don’t feel like hitting you

no its ok hit me he insisted

lightly punching me in the shoulder

so I poked him a couple of times

sort of sparring but make-believe

not like fighting off

my father as a child which was for real

some months later Arl told me he was retiring

sold his house and vanished

I never saw him again

a mutual friend confided that Arl had given

up one of his wealthier Sydney clients

to the Tax Department in exchange for immunity

the businessman had a contract out on him

a Maori heavy once told me

there is only one way to deal with conmen: physical violence

I don’t know if there’s any truth to the story

I don’t know if Arl was a genius or a crook

but I miss him and his strange mind

I have a more conservative accountant now

I sleep better

he hasn’t encouraged me to punch him yet.

Joe Dolce

Letter from the King
If I blow a hundred,
And Charles wears the Ring,
Will I be receiving
A Letter from the King?

 

A Special Court telegram,
With Royal cheer and laughter
On my 100th, 105th,
And every birthday after,

 

And if I drew a lucky gene,
And call in all my bets,
I’ll get a swag of Kingly letters,
I could collect the set.
But just the sound of it is awful,
It somehow feels all wrong,
Like Lord Godiva side-saddle,
Or Faye Wray and Queen Kong.

A postcard from HER Majesty.
Now that’s the proper gift
(Although the custom started
Way back with George the 5th).

No, not much to look forward to,

A Letter from the King.
No matter how you say it,
It doesn’t have the ring.

Joe Dolce

Music 101

 

 

I attribute my unerring sense of rhythm,

the accuracy at which I am able to play,

dead on beat, to my mother’s skill,

with the pasta spoon.

 

Bent over her aproned lap,

for one digression or another,

she brought the heavy wooden baton

down onto my backside,

like a skilled German conductor.

 

I—told—you—not—to—do—that—

 

One word per strike, metrical,

marrying forever, pain, and precision,

word and rhythm.

 

Don’t—ev—er—let—me—catch—you—do—ing—that—a—gain—

 

Short,       sharp,       per—cuss—ive,       Protestant words.

 

I was blessed she never knew the value

of a thesaurus.

Joe Dolce

ST JOSEPHINE

 

Josephine Margaret Bakhita

kidnapped by slave traders

torn from family in Darfur and robbed

of childhood at seven

sold resold five times

in markets of El Obeid and Khartoum

named Bakhita by captors—Arabic for lucky—

(she eventually forgot her birthname).

Scarified and tattooed with razor, salt, white flour,

114 patterns cut into breasts, belly and arms.

Forcibly converted to Islam.

 

Bought by an Italian Consul, a kind man.

Brought to Italy and Christ,

entrusted to the Canossian Sisters,

trained in the catechumenate in Venice,

received communion from Cardinal Sarto,

the future Pope Pius X.

Her mind on God, her heart in Africa,

she was known as madre moretta, black mother.

She named God the Master,

while dying whispered,

please loosen these chains… they are heavy,

her final words—Our lady! Our lady!

 

Canonized by Pope John Paul II,

the only Sudanese saint,

patron of evangelical reconciliation.

 

Joe Dolce