Wayne Zade teaches in Missouri, has appeared in Poetry, APR, Antioch Review, Shenandoah, many others. He can be reached at zadew@micro.wcmo.edu.





THE BEST WAS YET TO COME



The Sinatra LPs in a stack on the sofa
already spoke volumes. In 1946, my father met my mother
for the second time and they married ASAP.
I was born the next year ASAP.
My grandparents forgot a few more words of English.

A Chrysler was the car to have.
It looked good in many photographs.
Kids could name cars on the street
the way they named ballplayers.
The boys, at least.

My uncle flew to Mexico safely: he came back.
My cousin Vince and his pal Snoozie were "hoods."
"Hoods" rhymed with "cool,"
but not exactly with "school."
Vince joined the Army and then a seminary.

Seventeen people could crowd around a table for dinner.
The average weight of turkeys was 24 pounds.
It snowed those days in Chicago,
and it was good packing for snowballs.
We wore our Hungarian galoshes.

My mother had Queen Elizabeth's nose.
She'd wanted to name me "Evan": it sounded British.
My father bought her a diamond from Billy Goldberg.
Frank Sinatra kissed Judy Garland. Fans held their breath
when those two sang "All or Nothing at All."










Wayne Zade


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