When John Kennedy Jr. went missing two days before my 45h birthday, my Italian kicked in right away. Unlike the rest of America, I knew there was little hope. The Prince of Camelot was gone adding to the myth of a Kennedy curse. It’s that uncanny ability I’ve inherited from my Italian grandfather knowing sad truth before it’s actually proven.
I was also in bed with a guy I’ll call Lloyd when the infamous garment bag washed up on shore. As we were heave-hoing to the sound of CNN, unlike my lover who stopped in mid heave, I wasn’t surprised.
I got dressed, went home and wrote this poem I just found in an old Town & Country Magazine with his mother on the cover.
Every morning I walk through the Park, across the bridge…down the hill…and expect to see you.
I expect to see you dashing from 1040 on roller blades in your navy pinstriped suit, looking like your father when you practiced law and worked for the D.A.’s office downtown on Centre Street.
You open the door to her taxi waiting for it to leave…despite your skates.
I expect to pass you crossing Fifth in one of your funny hats turned backwards; riding a bike, or walking the dog you rescued and were fined fifty bucks for allowing to run free.
I expect to catch you at the newsstand on 85th and Mad perusing papers same as me…grinning, nodding in complicity while we wait to be told…this is not the Public Library.
Maybe later I’ll meet you coming home…your arms around a leggy girl who very soon you’ll marry and plan to grow old with…