Old triple-decker, 44 Mercer Street:

we moved in when I was five and a half.

This was East Boston, where neighbours would greet

you with a smile (though sometimes things got rough).

Mom, Dad, and I: we lived on the first floor;

just above us, Maddalena Tedeschi.

Maggie for short. Three times a week, or more,

she'd welcome Father Vincent, who'd sip whiskey

and sit with her, poor widow, Timmy's mother

in her mid-forties, steely-haired chain-smoker.

Once, she tried to get fresh with my Dad,

had words once with my Mom and tried to choke her.

Dad handled it himself. She didn't bother

us after that. Maddalena. Maggie the Mad.