My Uncle Sal
Was found
In the basement
Of the elementary school
Where he cleaned.
A heart attack
They said.
The police report
Put forth the diagnosis.
The coroner’s report
Claimed his heart
Failed.
There was no mention
In any of the documents
Of the 45 caliber
Bullet
Which pierced his skull
And stopped his heart.
A made man
Uncle Sal was proud
Of his place
In the Family.
He did his mob job
Thoroughly
Swiftly
The same way
He scrubbed
His son’s school.
My uncle
The janitor
The cleaner
The maintenance engineer
Was also
A hit man
A clean-up man
An executioner
Whose life ended
As a murderer’s should
Felled not by
A heart attack
But
By a bullet
In his ear.
I am sad.
My Uncle Sal
Was a good uncle
But
May he rest
In peace
He was
A bad man.
(dVersepoets, Open Link Night 73, December 4, 2012.)
vb's reverbs 
Wow that must have been quite the ordeal indeed.
I enjoy writing in the first person which might mislead at times–Uncle Sal’s demise, while triggered by a short news item, is fiction (I must admit to wiping my brow and whispering “Thank goodness”.) Thanks for commenting.
I am half Sicilian and half Roman. Our families were barbers, tailors, construction workers, shoe makers and dock workers. Some in the second generation even graduated from high school and most were WW II vets. Now the third generation – I was the first to go to college. I was a school teacher and mother and father sacrificed so much for that and are so proud. We are very ashamed of the “bad men”. They are a disgrace.
Pride of family is a true gift and it sounds as though you have many reasons to be proud of the good people who are dear to you. I hope some are also near to you so you can enjoy them during the Christmas season.
(We all have “bad men” who touch on our lives, sometimes peripherally, sometimes more directly–the seemingly unattainable ideal would be to avoid them altogether.)
Is this true? Or more fictitious-prose-poetry?
More “fictitious-prose-poetry”, I’m afraid. The story grew out of a newspaper item I had read a while ago and my “knowledge” of the mob comes from my love of gangster movies. I was interested in the conflict offered by a hit man (the ultimate “bad man”) cleaning up for the Family (mob) at the same time he was cleaning up for his son’s (personal family) school.
Yeah, so much true to tell in poetry, why fiction?
Now don’t get me wrong, poetry that makes clear that it is telling a story, is another thing: epics and ballads and such.
It is personal taste of course. I read poetry to learn of others and how they see their worlds.
Many truths are laid bare under the guise of fiction.
I agree. I just like when it is clear that I am reading fiction. Well done piece, dude.
well now you took me on a journey there…i was sorry at first, but then you turned the story on us….and it sounds in the end he may have had that one coming…dance with the flame you will burn you know…
Very true about dancing with the flame as “Uncle Sal” discovered–“What goes around, comes around” might even better describe a hit man getting hit–Many thanks for commenting!
Yikes! I knew a made man once. Crazy. Well done. The short crisp lines and words work very well here. k.
Many thanks for commenting! Not being personally connected, I wasn’t sure whether a made man would be working as a janitor but I decided it was a good cover for a hit man and it was important that my janitor also be the latter so I went with it. (Was your made man crazy or was it crazy to know someone like that?)
A bit of both. He’d gotten out of it all, but that had somehow involved a very extensive hospital stay. He was actually a very nice person, but had certainly had a very difficult life with exposure to things one wouldn’t want to know about. k.
Wow! Not even the coroner or the police want anything to do with this one…all on the payroll.
Were they ever–it’s pretty difficult to diagnose a hole in the head as heart failure without a few greased palms to back you up. Many thanks for visiting!
This is awesome. What a great ending.
Like “awesome”–many thanks! I enjoyed visiting your site–lovely photos and poems.
My “Uncle Al” returned to my gray blob, as I read your Uncle Sal. Also a made man, he never got made until God was ready. Heart attack (real) in a place he built and lived: Pax Acres.
Whoever had his contract never EVER believed him to be living in a place named “Peace Acres”–grin!
Glad you stopped by–am enjoying myself here!
A retirement community named Pax Acres–the perfect safe house for a made man on the run (the guy with his contract probably thought it was the name of a cemetery)..