Frank Modica
I meant the duplex on Union Avenue
not too far from Mayor Daley’s bungalow–
my village; a corner store, laundromat,
my playgrounds, a postage stamp backyard ,
the alley behind our apartment.
When I said home
I meant my Catholic grammar school
sitting squat on a corner one block away,
not the two nearby Catholic schools,
never the public school across the street.
When I said home I meant the Ramova,
a theater with weekend matinees,
a safe enough walk down Halsted
if you didn’t male eye contact with young men
pitching pennies by unfamiliar parks.
When I said home I meant
my neighborhood,
the streets and sounds I knew.