Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Thursday, December 19, 2013

The Bronx/1963

by Amy Soricelli

The Bronx is cement.  
Loud, lost art-deco lobby/ hidden staircase;
overhead planes flying too low down the back of your neck.
The Bronx is a window painted shut.
Stained streets littered- up, bags on the side of the road.
The Bronx is an air-raid drill in the middle of class.
You stand single- file up against the wall so the bomb,
when it comes,
could roll its way down beside you while you stand clear like a shadow.
The Bronx is curled under your desk covering your head from
The Bronx is a music teacher in  a dark suit who hands out pennies at Christmas.
 He doesn't  date your mother but  he should.
The President died in my Bronx classroom filling up the afternoon to pledge of allegiance.
Early dismissal flowing down the rest of the year like a black cloud.
The Bronx is a long block with tree names/bicycles filled with dead air.
German shepherd dogs - watch their chains rolled tight against bad boy fists.
It is crossed streets- johnny pumps high against passing cars in the deep drip of summer.
The Bronx is needles in apples on Halloween.
Sulky neighbors with sharp fang teeth ;dead pigeons in rainbow-oil puddles
around and around lost, like in a drain.
It is gum stuck to the end of your shoes.
The Bronx is the end of your shoes.


  1. I liked this poem very much, Amy - as I did your poem this week in Turbulence - and of course your New York photos.

    Robert Nisbet