95th Street

As a child
Lying on the bed
in back of my aunt’s storefront
Watching the kaleidoscopic shadows
From the passing headlights
Dance across the ceiling,
          I listened.
I listened to the perfect silence
Of the middle of the night
Surrender to the soft crescendo and decrescendo
Of the passing cars.
They were calling me to 95th Street.

The cars
Tires swooshing on the pavement
The red-yellow-green reflections of the stoplight
Glisten on the street.
          Swoosh
                    Whoosh
They go by in the night
          Inter–mit–tent–ly
I wondered where they are going
I wondered where they have come from
          at three-in-the-morning
I wanted to know
I wanted to be with them.
          at three-in-the-morning
Knowing where I had come from
Knowing where I was going
          Whooshing down 95th Street.

It must be special
in the middle of the night
To Whoosh
           Swoosh
On glistening pavement
That changes colors with the light
          And I wondered
Where are they going?
Where have they come from?
On 95th Street.

      -- jwb 1999

1958

Twilight fireflies –
Children tumble on the lawns.
Baseball in the street.

Wilted parents surrender
to summer’s authority.

A stolen hour
claimed by neither light nor dark:
a still life in grey.

Up and down the block
boundaries melt with the heat:
old and young are friends.

An arpeggio of bells
heralds the Popsicle man.

The cool interlude
drips the day away to night.
It’s time to go home.

Darkness has settled.
Seventeen-year locusts buzz.
Weak-springed screen doors slam.

There is no sign of a breeze.
Glasses clink with hopeful ice.

Cool sheets don’t last long;
no one can sleep but the dog
snoring on the porch.

In the hushed stillness,
a summer night’s paradox:
everything is heard.

Somewhere a radio blares
a-ding-a-dong-ding, blue moon.

A lone whip-poor-will
sings a tranquil lullaby;
Backyard voices fade.

The night turns gentle.
A door creaks shut: no voices,
no more radio.

It is now cricket quiet,
then even they are still.

The last firefly
dances outside my window
and turns out the light.

 -- jwb 2000