Summer Evening in a Transitional Neighborhood
Outside, I can hear the sounds of Fernando Avenue,
The broken muffler of Ricky 54, the car of the local dealer,
Better than the song of an ice cream truck for some,
And the twice hourly whistles of the evening trains, warning
Or perhaps summoning the hopeless at their particular crossroads
What I like best, though is the rough realism of the crows,
Who, I know, will never learn to sing
And the thump of a basketball, passing endlessly through a hoop in the park
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Liza,
ReplyDeleteThis is quite a beautiful poem. I especially like the analogy between the dealer's muffler and the "song of an ice cream truck," the way you juxtapose that with the "rough realism of the crows, who, I know, will never learn to sing." And the final line is both beautiful and eerie with its "endlessness" . . . Is Ricky 54 the name of the dealer's car, as is suggested gramatically?
Eric