A Man of Integrity
The label on the bottle,
bold white and red
on black: 3055, A MAN,
A TIME, A WINE.
A charismatic man who led
an infectiously interesting life,
a Catalan poet who never
wrote a word, a poet of vines,
bold author of new wines
who combined grapes as never
before, as a poet ties together
words that have never met.
This is a eulogy for a man
from before my time, Jean Leon,
more than his New York City
taxi license number 3055,
more than the name of his wine,
a magnet for good fortune
who drove and drove, honed
the skills that would bring him fame.
Spain, 1941
Thirteen years old, 1941,
chaos in your small world,
fire for two days in Santander,
the medieval town center gone,
the cathedral a shell, your family
left homeless in more ways than one,
your father and brother’s lives claimed
by war, their ship sunk by a torpedo.
Nineteen years old, try and try, try
again to leave Spain. Stow away
at last on a merchant vessel
with one suitcase, little money.
New York
In a photo sent to your mother,
you stand on a rock in Central Park,
dapper and suave, skyline behind,
proof of arrival in New York.
But the suit jacket is borrowed.
No need to tell her there’s no need
for special clothes to work illegally
as a waiter, dishwasher, cab driver.
Alien Buddha Press 