Long Walks and Lemon Drops

I come from skinny one-way streets with black hot tar bubbles,
oozing between my toes, tearing the skin off my sole.

I come from straggly stray mutts running toward the number 3 bus,
with pale freckled boys hanging on the rear bumper.
I come from biking across a three-lane parkway on a yellow Schwinn, 
to taste Carvel Ice Cream root beer float with two scoops of vanilla. 

I come from school number 219 free lunch program 
and after school potato suppers: fried, baked, mashed, and pancaked,
stick to your ribs until you awake.

I come from Old Bay steamed crabs, 
licking the yellow mustard
rinsed with a Natty Boh. 

I come from cheering homeruns in August heat, 
perched in the nosebleed section
where Domino Sugar lights the full moon.

I come from a breech birth at Church Home Hospital, 
where the ghost of Poe ushers through cold corridors. 
I come from single immigrant mother who walks a mile in high heels, 
her set of wheels work nine to five, rain or shine.
I come from, "you better get your Saturday chores done on time!"

I come from rented brick rowhomes that held secrets and succotash, stress and striving, 
where church squares of concrete held prayers for muddied motley misfits.

I come from bending your knees to lend a hand to neighbors in need, 
where "Lean on Me" was more than a song.

I come from long walks to the laundromat, 
hugging a basket of knee-torn Wrangler Jeans, 
and sweat-stained marigold tank tops
to fist-bump the rusted machine for lemon drops.
I come from tough lessons that built wisdom,
and treasure the bitter-sweet taste of my town.