I go back as far as Brooklyn and its dark brown trees, 
forsythia, too, inside fenced curbside plots 
fronting bars & beauty parlors, the long avenues
pop-ups from picture books,
and everything a puzzle waiting to be solved
like sycamore bark & the building courtyard
crowded with Catholic girls in Easter outfits.

It was the time of the Cold War.
My transistor radio was subverted by race music.
On my knees I prayed my parents would vanish
behind an iron curtain or disappear under the boardwalk.
I had no dog to run alongside me when bike riding
past the wide plane trees I loved so much & left far behind
in that city of buses & cabs when I was small.