Punchline
By Cora McCann Liderbach
He was just a Jersey boy,
a wisecracker, a wit; too
nearsighted for stickball.
Hungry for history and art,
schooled by example.
And if he later forgot to teach
kindness or patience—
well, he could only parrot
what he learned from his mother
and the nuns at St. Aloysius.
If he held too fast to fear,
it was merely the memory
of onion sandwiches in
the Great Depression
lingering. And if he preferred
evenings at Jimmy O’Neil’s
to evenings at home,
it was because his quiet father
showed him the comfort
of distance from discord,
and the warmth that a tumbler
of whiskey—and a punchline,
well-landed—could bring.