I come from

I come from an old neighborhood where the houses
Line the streets like tired soldiers on leave,
Slanted and canted every which way.
I hail from blue collar working people,
People who learn to squeeze a dollar early
To make the nonexistent budget stretch.
I’m born of immigrant stock, our past
Still reflected in our present, the old country
Looming large in our collective memory.
I grew up to a symphony of sirens
Screeching into the night,
Blood red lights shadowing the real life flow.
Our world smelled of beer
From cooking hops at the brewery blocks away
And bread from the commercial bakery.
Sometimes the stench of the stockyards wafted on the wind,
We called it the smell of money
And my father toiled there until they shut the doors.
My childhood sights were not pretty,
A wino pissing on the junkyard fence,
A neighbor boy dead and overdosed in the alley.
Nuns took walks two by two
From our parish nearby
And drug deals went down on the corners.
I’ve seen blood stain the cracked old sidewalks,
A boy riding his bicycle struck by a car,
Shattered a window with a foul ball but another took the blame.
I come from a place you weren’t supposed to live,
Where most go from girl to grandmother in a few years,
But I departed and I don’t look back.