The old women sat on stoops
and talked of finer times
and better days as summer heat
bounce off the walls of tired
tenement brick.
They fanned themselves and talked
about the old country with a
wistfulness that belied the reasons
they struggled to America's shores;
but I think...a rumination of lost youth,
not better days...
that existed in faulty memories.
The boys played stickball
on narrow city streets.
The girls watched
and fed their sweet desires,
as faded scents of dinner
hugged the evening heat.
The sun glowed orange
behind the pigeon coops on rooftop peaks.
Birds cood, flew and swooped
before their evening sleep.
Mothers called from windows to their kids,
come on in...your father wants you home,
RIGHT NOW!
The old women stood, brushed their clothes,
readied to come in;
and when their hair undone,
on tear-stained pillows lay,
they dreamed...
of streets paved with gold.
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