by Anthony Liccione
A tired song rolls,
past the tired childhood neighborhood. Tired trees hanging in the
summer streets of a tired sun, sinking in the sky. Where we jump roped
and opened fire hydrants, laughed and splashed against the cool water.
Age now beside me, as I retire now in a bed not mine, hearing that old
song still rolling, past outside the window. The smell of the air
outside isn't the same anymore: the wife, the kids, everything is gone
now. The cool water running against the curb down the street, turning in
for the gutters.
Anthony Liccione eats and breathes in Texas, but his heart lives for New York.