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Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Memories packed in a Suitcase (day eight) of National Poetry Month, April 2013

Memories packed in a Suitcase.  

Once again I am awake to the sounds of the Number 2 train pulling in to the el station.
I smell the cooking of fried eggs and bacon wayfaring up from the floors
below of my six story building.
With the shouts of the children playing
sewer ball on the hot steamy streets.
 All running around
with their t-shirts off and the girls playing ring-a-levio.   
Life continues on.

The work-alcoholic fathers are at the local pubs
drinking their cold drafts.
 The television plays the latest sport, horse racing,
foot, or baseball game. They are all betting on the winner.
The bookie taking the bets and writing the odds
 in his notepad.

The mothers are hurdle together, sharing in the gossip of the day.
The draft’s personnel comes knocking and time passes,
Some of the children are all grown and fighting the enemies across the seas.
Now the fathers drink with a false bravo and the
mothers wait and pray to hear the voice of their
sons or daughters and wish to be able to hold them
 again in their arms. 

The school children are now adults, some graduated and
escapes the poverty of the ailing Bronx and the doom future.
Some have been arrested, turn junkie or even met the Grimm Reaper.
But some of the Bronx natives, they have their fond memories,
The first friend, the first kiss, the first job and the secrets of
The adventures in Vannie Park, to Jones Beach
to the Rockaways and the girls and boys, petting under the boardwalk.
 The taste of the golden liqueur and sweet dope
and so much more.
 All roll into
unforgettable memories.

The best of all, that one loyal friend
Who hung with you and stood by your
side through life’s B.S. and kept your
deepest secrets to the grave or did they?.

Copyright (c) Cat Mahoney

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