Grace Cavalieri

Tomato Pies, 25 Cents

By Grace Cavalieri

 

Tomato pies are what we called them, those days,

before Pizza came in,

at my Grandmother’s restaurant,

in Trenton New Jersey.

My grandfather is rolling meatballs

in the back. He studied to be a priest in Sicily but

saved his sister Maggie from marrying a bad guy

by coming to America.

Uncle Joey is rolling dough and spooning sauce.

Uncle Joey, is always scrubbed clean,

sobered up, in a white starched shirt, after

cops delivered him home just hours before.

The waitresses are helping

themselves to handfuls of cash out of the drawer,

playing the numbers with Moon Mullin

and Shad, sent in from Broad Street. 1942,

tomato pies with cheese, 25 cents.

With anchovies, large, 50 cents.

A whole dinner is 60 cents (before 6 pm).

How the soldiers, bussed in from Fort Dix,

would stand outside all the way down Warren Street,

waiting for this new taste treat,

young guys in uniform,

lined up and laughing, learning Italian,

before being shipped out to fight the last great war.

 

Poem copyright ©2010 by Grace Cavalieri from her most recent book of poetry, Sounds Like Something I Would Say, Goss 183 Casa Menendez, 2010. Reprinted by permission of Grace Cavalieri and the publisher.