On Zarker Street
Zarker Street was treeless,
front porches of houses
reaching the sidewalk,
not a square inch of grass
to welcome even a weed.
The polio ambulance, like a
a hungry animal, idled
In front of Ronnie Dasher’s house,
his brother being carted to the curb,
bound for an iron lung.
All the kids, having run inside,
watched from behind the windows.
“Mama, mama will I die?
I talked to him last week.”
How do you get away, get away?
In Miss Laken’s voice studio
at the corner of Twentieth,
a soprano student yearns
to reach the higher branches
of a more capacious garden.
Copyright © Bill Keen | Year Posted 2019
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