Poem by Simon Schattner

Photo by Andy Schattner



125th St. (Sometimes I remember)

Lying in my bed...Awake at night
sometimes I can remember
the light filtering up from the street
how many stories below?
Headlights swirling through the gnawing teeth of the Venetian blinds
rotating speckles of light, dancing with the shadows on the wall
clandestine radios playing hit tunes from 1957--?
police sirens mingling with angry voices from 125th St., early one Spring-
I arose and wandered out into the world
when innocence was just a passing name
for life before the change of climate
and I wondered
where my childhood had gone
when the lights passed by in the night
and the blind echoes of laughter on the pavement
raced enchanted against the paradox of Time
when Summer had left my veins-
I turned my back on the vainglorious asphalt of my spawning
longing to rush back and embrace it sanctimoniously
after Winter's languid dreams of suburban angst had consumed
my final bouncing streetwise mannerisms
and the last cry of the urban theatre
was left to wallow in its own restless ears-
Years later...
in the twilight of my youth
I wonder if my sacred rhapsodies are an illusion
or if memories can serve only one master