The street

You say street, and right away East St. Louis rises up--

my period started there, my serial falling in love.

My dog was run over on that street

but the eminent milestones of my life--

did not happen here, they turned up on other streets. 

This is the street where I first encountered perverts, 

where my mother beat me when a boy 

walked me home, 

where my father was always glaring,

no matter what he was up to--shaving, 

planting sunflowers, breathing--he glared. 

I think he hated me. 

Otherwise it was an ordinary street.

Yet I remember it more easily than the venerable 

streets that followed.  

The scent of soft tar. 

Racing Tommy to the Notre Dame locker room. 

The football team's moist, slabs of muscle. 

A joyful Saturday in Theresa's grandmother's attic. 

She found a suitcase packed with holy cards 

and shared them 50-50. 

I laughed a lot on that street. Almost every day. 

My little dog was run over there. 

I know I said that but it keeps coming back. 

After school, I had to walk past the ice cream store

but never had the money to buy a cone.

It wasn’t a street where I had all I wanted 

but when I walked it, I expected to have it all someday.

I fully believed I would become the Elvis 

of my generation.