The Brown Street Backyard

In the bad part of town.

The Brown Street Backyard

A carpet of old cigarettes on the sidewalks
covers broken glass and spray paint hop-scotch.
The exhaust-cough of rusted mufflers
and the sound of screeching children
crawls into these locked windows
through every day and night.

Catching some fresh air on your front porch,
air saturated with paper mill fumes,
on a misty Sunday afternoon,
a family saunters into the street
with a frisbee.

The green disc hangs from a string
and glides from father to son, the son to his brother
and back to their father,
over passing cars and by strangers passing on.
The boys laugh and their father imparts
the ancient secrets of throwing and catching
and of avoiding creeping cars
here in the Brown Street backyard.

I'll be gone in a month, but they'll hold fast to this place
with their Brown Street families
and their Brown Street friends
and their Brown Street apartments
and all those Brown Street problems
and a secret sometimes whispered
that walks them into that street with a smile.