Carlo Ferri

He swirled his trowel around
the cubed flowerpot, creating
scrolled designs. The heat
never bothered my great —
grandfather, even at the age
of eighty. A crisp, white shirt
with rolled sleeves remained
his chosen tunic for as long as anyone
could remember.

He stopped to pay Coochie a dime to
buy me an ice cream cone when
the silver truck stopped at our house.

Then he resumed his masterpiece.
The pottery and ice cream were
perfect in 1956 in Southeastern PA.