Harry on Hobson Street

The Lower Eastside was therefore forsaken,
and they ferried across the Hudson
to Newark,
to Hobson Street

where something like redemption
might be found

in the fugitive uproars
of penny-a-point gin rummy;

in the feathery ceramic click
of Mahjong tiles
cascading like whispers
into the stairwell;

or sometimes,
in a few countable moments,
banished
by the utter magnificence
of butter cookies
in white bakery boxes;

or otherwise in shadows

caging the front-room walls
where Harry
beside the corner window
sat and watched

as delivery trucks spiked headlights
--ground their gears—
on the way up
the undersized hill
to Hobson Street

where something like redemption might be found


 

Copyright, May 8, 2007, Mark A. Greenberg.
All Rights Reserved by Author.