The Barrens. The Bricklot. The Backlot.
Hubert Humphrey said that the people we met lived
“On the outside of affluence.” What could father offer?
Certainly we knew affluence, for every few months or so
Some Society or Association flew my dad (and me,
If I could be furloughed from middle school)
Off to a Convention or Meeting or Club to give a talk on
“Arts and Society” or “Imagination in Education.”
The emcee would compare Dad to Emerson,
While I in my overlong tie and blue blazer
Would kick my feet and drink my Cokes,
Counting the rings or the cufflinks—so much gold!
The Stumps. The Warren. The Lookout. The Flats.
Father would agree to appear only if our benefactors
Also joined us at the Boy’s Club, Y, or church basement
Where he would sell theater as a ladder,
The museum as a ticket uptown,
And poetry as a passport.
Our hosts would blanch as they repeated the names:
The Bottoms. The Kill Zone. The Scratch.
I can’t say much about the DAR,
But I remember setting up chairs
In Harlem with James Baldwin,
And learning about table grapes from Cesar Chavez
In a hot San Antonio community center
Where I was forbidden from removing my tie.
Jacob Riis, artist-reformer, how would you respond to
The Gap pushing khakis where once
Tenement workers peered through a smaller gap
In the brick to see the sun, or their wives
Stringing the wash on cords between neighbors,
Separated by eight feet, and the children
Playing, and waiting, five stories below?
For more of Andy's Poetry, see Split Stock at John Natsoulas Press.