Homecrest Ave

“Herbie threw the ball on the roof”!
He topped our six story building that day.
My computer screen shows me the place
And memory paints the scene.

Except for the dulled-red of the brick,
The apartment house looks about right,
Just a little smaller.
Stupid! stupid! Years spent hiding.

Our 5th floor apartment looked out
On a street, partially shaded, in summer,
By a large Oak.
I am warmed.

Stoop ball on the front steps,
I people the entrance with neighbors,
Guys my 15 years of age,
All of us showing signs of early lobotomies.

Pathetic, the bunch of us.
We considered an illegal trip to the pool hall,
Made possible by the contiguous bowling alley.
Never a good pool player.

Surely the word “contiguous” separates me?
At this time, before “hanging” became an art,
When I wasn’t masturbating or avoiding homework,
I learned words like “contiguous”.

It didn’t matter much.
You can’t spend time looking across the street,
Noting that 2 homes are “contiguous”.
Makes for a helluva conversation piece.

I remember riding on the running-board,
Of a 49 Plymouth.
That damn picture invites me in.
Did I just survive, or maybe it was more.