Brooklyn 1957


Eleven years old, lost in Prospect Park 
   with my friend Alan Weberman, a beatnik
who doesn’t play stickball, stoopball, or shoot 
   water pistols but wears a French beret, black 
turtleneck sweater, and plays the bongos.

We’re trying to find a way out of a 
   585-acre urban wilderness in the 
heart of deepest Brooklyn with 
   no maps, canteens, compass,
food or shining stars to guide us.  

We’re far from Mom ‘n’ Pop’s candy store 
   with its vanilla egg creams, chocolate 
Clark Bars, Drake’s pound cakes, 
   cherry lime rickeys, and long salted 
pretzels in plastic see-through bins.

We’re far from the Patio Movie Theater, 
   with its double features, cartoons, 
newsreels and a goldfish pond 
   in a beautiful tiled lobby to 
throw pennies into.

We’re far from Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor with
   its Kitchen Sink, a jumble of ice cream, 
chocolate syrup, whipped cream, maraschino 
   cherries, and a concatenation of other things 
that can serve up to six.
  
We’re far from the Empire Rollerdrome, 
   Freddie Fitzsimmons Bowling Alley, 
Ebinger’s Bakery, Erasmus Hall High School, 
   and Ebbets Field, home of  the ‘55 world champs, 
’57 world chumps who left Flatbush for LA.

We’re far from college, marriage, 
   work, retirement, and a quiet 
home in the country away from 
   the racket, hubbub, and delight 
of inner-city childhood life.