Because the next day is a Friday in 1963, there will be fish
          for supper, except my father will eat something else
          (Mother always trying to fatten him up),
because Father works in the payroll office
because Atlas Foundry makes manhole covers
          and other metal objects and parts,
because my father wears a shirt and tie,
because by noon the day before, November 22,
          President Kennedy is dead,
because children are sent home from school,
because people weep on street corners, on the news,
          in living rooms, in schools, in foundries,
because the workers ask what about the funeral,
          what about Monday,
the workers are black and wear hardhats and visors,
          because their thick gloves are made of asbestos,
          and we've watched them pour molten gold rivers,
because I never met owner Leo Long but I hear
          his name,
because he takes Fridays off but my father is there,
because Father tells the men, "I'm staying home on Monday—
          out of respect,"
because my father doesn't promise a holiday but implies it,
because on Monday, the furnaces are cold,
because Leo Long later says, "If I'd had a gun that day,
          I would have shot you,"
because that's when we know who is friend
          and who is foe,
because it's as though the one we lost is one
          of us,
because the t.v. stays on all weekend,
because the drums beat a mournful cadence,
because the riderless horse clops down the street.
          its saddle and stirrups empty.

__

"Leo Long Threatens My Father" is a piece of a new manuscript-in-progress about growing up in America with a focus on an annus mirabilis (wonderful year) for me, 1963, or was it an annus horribilis (horrible year)? It was a transformative year in any case.