Tenement Years
Reared in ruins,
& East London brick dust,
lard spread on bread.
My figure daubed
by days of oil and dirt,
a boy by railroad tracks -
wrong side.
Trains clattered past
pumping smutty fumes.
Once, a pretty girl
visited our tenement,
posh clothes,
(I mean, not rough flannel),
clean hands, neatly dressed.
We boys gawped, then
then derided.
we had no way to acknowledge
one so distant from our reality.
I told mother,
she just shrugged not understanding.
She was a lock-in woman
& expressed herself
as a long ignored dog would
when asked about
the meaning of life.
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