INCLINED

Today I wonder if some 'Other'
Like me incline their heads just
So when asked, “Where did you grow up?”
I said, “D.C.”
“Come on, where else?”
I said, “ New York .”
"No. Where are you really from?"
This plunges my head
Back to crossing the sea in search for first words,
Seasick then with my lost lingua
At the bar I bumbled back
And forth between what was limone for lemonade.
 
Now should I praise my first root under
My tongue with annamo ,* give me a break, in romano
Or bogus my lips with elongated vowels in a
Sing-song of O Paese d'o sole in napoletano .
To you – la mia storia – might begin as Mamma Mia
Pasta jingle, hands that talk or other jarred pesto
Off-color slight that spots your visions on flat screens
Views of singers not as such on the Sopranos .
 
Add to that more con-versions, growths from Hollywood
To Godfather Six
In the shadows of such a place
Where Sal once baked Wonder Bread.
Some may pin-point as miscellaneous
Others shoot me with their endless need
But I refuse, why bother.
 

* annamo – Roman dialect for andiamo – let's go, come on.