Although not not blessed with beauty

yet the street is beautiful.

humble, work-a-day, utilitarian.

small homes with their steps to the upper floors,

the tiny front enclosures

standing straight to face

The other side

of the beautiful street.

Although not blessed with beauty, there are trees

planted by the city under the watchful eyes of housewives who grumble about the leaves.

They bring budding of acid green

or shade, or gold or snow white arms held out

and we don’t mind too much.

The beautiful street

is full of humble, ordinary, people

who might have a noisy party in the summer.

It annoys me in my flowery back yard.

The noise, you know.

They might have a yard sale

to sell their Wallmart flotsam, or a blanket never used

a tricycle.

The beautiful street is full of clumsy people

who sweep my steps, “Because I was doing mine anyway.”

The beautiful street of mixed up front doors

of railings black or red.

“Shit weather, eh?” on the beautiful street

as my neighbor slides on the ice

to help me carry groceries

into my modest quarters.

Late at night a banging noise startles me.

It is the youngsters whom I examined with a wary eye

before I “took a chance” and took  them as tenants.

Hacking at the ice on my steps they laugh their reckless laugh

as I peer out.  They wave and yell.  ” Did we scare you?”

The people agree to live in a beautiful way on

the ordinary, ugly, neighbourhood street

The beautiful street.