Inside Story
Last month was extremely busy, with an extended trip to upstate New York to attend a family wedding and absorb local flavor for the Prohibition-era Galliano Club thrillers.
A visit to my hometown of Rome, NY--which inspired the fictional city of Lido, NY--included an interview for the local newspaper.
After seeing the interview, Emmy Award-winning filmmaker Francis DiClemente sent me his poem “The Galliano Club.” It's a glimpse inside the real Galliano Club, a watering hole for Italian men just like in the thriller series.
His words capture the Rome of our childhoods: Italian, Catholic, blue collar. The poem went straight to my heart. Francis kindly gave permission to share it here.
Photo by Nick Fewings via Unsplash
The Galliano Club
from Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems
by Francis DiClemente
From street-level sunlight to cavernous darkness,
then down a few steps and you enter The Galliano Club.
Cigar smoke wafts in the air above a cramped poker table.
Scoopy, Fat Pat and Jules are stationed there,
along with Dominic, who monitors the game,
pacing with fingers clasped behind his back.
A pool of red wine spilled on the glossy cherry wood bar,
matches the hue of blood splattered on the bathroom wall.
A cracked crucifix and an Italian flag hang above,
as luck is coaxed into the club with a roll of dice
and a sign of the cross.
Pepperoni and provolone are piled high for Tony’s boys,
who man the five phone lines
and scrawl point spreads on yellow legal pads.
Bocce balls collide as profanity whirls about …
and in between tosses, players brag about
cooking calamari (pronounced “calamad”).
Each Sunday during football season, after St. John’s noon Mass,
my father strolls across East Dominick Street and places his bets,
catapulting his hopes on the shoulder pads of
Bears, Bills, Packers and Giants.
His teams never cover and he’s grown accustomed to losing …
as everything in Rome, New York, exacts a toll,
paid in working class weariness and three feet of snow.
But once inside The Galliano, he feels right at home,
recalling his heritage, playing cards with his friends.
And here he’s no longer alone,
as all have stories of chronic defeat.
Blown parlays, slashed pensions and wives sleeping around,
constitute the cries of small-town men
who have long given up on their out-of-reach dreams.
For now, they savor the moment—
a winning over/under ticket, a sip of Sambuca
and Sunday afternoons shared in a place all their own.
About the poet: Francis DiClemente is an Emmy Award-winning filmmaker who lives in Syracuse, New York. He is the author of six poetry collections, most recently Outward Arrangements: Poems (2021) and Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2019). https://francisdiclemente.com/
