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
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.