All the Old Timers are gone now <br />gone with the babushkas and the mandolins; <br />nevermore the tarantella or boring bocce games <br />played by the devoted. <br /> <br />Sadly lost are summertime block parties, <br />redolent of Italy’s seasonings; <br />scratchy records playing Dino and Sinatra: <br />benevolent hymns to the glory of the homeland, <br />ancient loudspeakers echoing <br />in mournful nostalgia. <br /> <br />Colorful Saint Day Parades <br />through cobblestoned streets, precarious <br />at best, are passé too. <br />The Madonna has been laid to rest, <br />along with her son, never again <br />to rise on Easter morning: <br /> <br />They have broken the backs of those old timers <br />and, to the rest of us <br /> <br />Ellis Island is but a memory.<br /><br />Alicia Patti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ellis-island-elegy/
