Ogden Nash wrote, “The Bronx, no thonx.”
Not my Bronx!
Not my East Bronx, 80 years ago!
No images of catastrophe, chaos, and calamity!
My images conjure up the backyard sound of music.
The Klezmer violin, accordion, or tenor voice.
Happily accepting the pennies wrapped in newspaper
Tossed out the window in place of applause.
My images conjure up the sight of girls jumping rope,
Girls bouncing balls to, “A my name is Anna,
And my husband’s name is Albert…”
Boys playing stickball or Three Feet Off To Germany.
My images conjure up the pickle man Jake’s wife.
Her hands raw, red and rough.
Hands bejeweled and sparkling,
Dipping into the cold, briny liquid.
Filling momma’s jar with floating sours.
My images conjure up the taste of marshmallow, skewered on a stick,
Dipped in hot, red sweet jelly.
Or pressed sheets of dried apricot, “shoe leather.”
For 3 pennies, a dipped apple can be your prize.
My images conjure up the arrival and aroma of the Sweet Potato Man.
His tin oven holds a draw full of sweet, succulent potatoes.
He will wrap one in thin, soft red paper
For you to cradle in your cold palm.
My images feel the warmth of the small pony
As I am lifted up for the photograph.
I am wearing a cape momma has sewn for me.
Say cheese, please, click, click.
My East Bronx 80 years ago.
No images of catastrophe, chaos, and calamity!
