Bronx
Aileen Bassis


I’m an urban child, with scabby knees
branded by afternoons skating
pitted sidewalks
In the Bronx,
yes, trees lived in dirt squares,
grass, belonged behind chain link
poles and you
better stay off that weedy lawn or else. 

And in winter, I slid down the dirty hills
of snow, under the swinging
chains right up to cars
looping around the curve,
warmed wet
mittens in a wooly
crowd on the lobby radiator.

The elevator always smelled bad but press
the buttons
for your floor and everyone knew
not to go
up or down the back stairs
   
and watch out for the girl with crazy eyes, what’s
her name, she could make you
believe in witches and her crazy
big brother and her crazy dad too.

and sprinklers in the park squirted up warm showers
and wind always was blowing up
hill from the Harlem river,
and in the Bronx, yes
you can say the word damn
when its Macomb’s Dam Bridge.

Chanting games, clap and bounce, and wait,
wait your turn.  Can you
jump in on time? Turn the rope,
over and down
it comes, grab a chance, a moment,      
jump, don’t wait, it’s time,
jump
in the Bronx. Yes.