Lately I’ve been watching gangsters die
of cancer on TV. I sympathize.
I’ve got a lot in common with these guys—
the old world gone, this new one doesn’t fly.
It’s getting so Omertà means ugots.
Old loyalties go Hollywood, and men
like Poons LoSapio, the ones-in-ten,
the kings, are dropped like limp forget-me-nots.
It didn’t used to play like this. No bang,
no parting shots. A whimper?—va fangul!
Our boys would go out heavy, nicely dressed
(so, maybe sometimes facedown in braciole…)
But on a couch? Ah, mezzo morte gang,
with you I grow nostalgic and depressed.
Courtesy of Uphook Press/Great Weather for Media (Gape Seed, 2011 anthology)