Judy Barrat

Summer

 

Early memories of the

shadowy grunge of the

the Bronx streets of my

early childhood elicit           

pictures of colorless

seasons, bare cement

sidewalks, tan tenement

buildings, and large lots

filled with gray Quonset

huts inhabited by poor

families mostly of war

veterans unable to work,

who in my child’s mind

all seemed to have too

many children.

 

Winters didn’t see many

people on the streets and

the few trees in the area

were bare; snow and chill

and muddy slush were

everywhere.  Spring was

a bit brighter though the

few trees sprouted little

worthy of mention, autumn

was nothing like what songs

spoke about; the leaves that

fell were already brown. 

 

It was only in the summer,

when the heat and humidity

were nearly unbearable, when

the blazing sun reflected off

chrome bumpers of passing

cars and some blessed soul

took pity on the kids wrenched

open a fire hydrant and cool

clean water flooded out,

that the streets came alive

with the laughter of children

together, brown and black and

white skins glistening wet, all

joining in the dance of Summer.