The fire escape, a rusted iron vine,
Clings to brick the color of old wine.
Nineteen years, a pigeon on the sill,
Watching Little Italy stand still, and thrill.
The scent of garlic, oregano's hum,
Escapes Sal's butcher shop, where cleavers come
Down hard on lamb, a rhythmic, meaty beat,
Mingling with Vespa engines on Mott Street.
Grandma's window, lace a dusty white,
Whispers secrets in the fading light.
A rosary clutched tight within her hand,
Praying for safe passage through this land
Of honking taxis, shouts across the way,
And boys with slicked-back hair who come to play
Dominoes loud beneath the flickering lamp,
Their laughter echoing, a youthful, joyful stamp.
The bakery's sweet breath, a sugary haze,
Cannoli shells in golden, sugared maze.
I linger there, the coins within my jeans
Burning a hole with teenage, hungry scenes
Of sfogliatelle crisp, a ricotta dream,
A taste of home, it always would seem.
Down Bleecker Street, the music starts to bleed
From smoky clubs, a saxophone's wild creed.
Too young to enter, but I stand and stare,
At shadows dancing, lost within the air.
A yearning stirs, a restless, teenage fire,
To break these borders, climb a little higher
Than tenement roofs, the laundry in the breeze,
To find what waits beyond these crowded trees
Of brick and stone, this heritage so deep,
While Little Italy holds secrets that I keep.
The rumble of the subway, underground,
A constant pulse, a never-ending sound.
It carries faces, stories yet untold,
Like mine, at nineteen, brave and slightly bold.
I kick a loose stone on the cracked sidewalk,
Another night is coming, like a hawk
Descending softly on the city's gleam.
Nineteen in Little Italy, a vibrant, waking dream.
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 10:57 AM UTC
The fire escape, a rusted iron vine,
Clings to brick the color of old wine.
Nineteen years, a pigeon on the sill,
Watching Little Italy stand still, and thrill.
The scent of garlic, oregano's hum,
Escapes Sal's butcher shop, where cleavers come
Down hard on lamb, a rhythmic, meaty beat,
Mingling with Vespa engines on Mott Street.
Grandma's window, lace a dusty white,
Whispers secrets in the fading light.
A rosary clutched tight within her hand,
Praying for safe passage through this land
Of honking taxis, shouts across the way,
And boys with slicked-back hair who come to play
Dominoes loud beneath the flickering lamp,
Their laughter echoing, a youthful, joyful stamp.
The bakery's sweet breath, a sugary haze,
Cannoli shells in golden, sugared maze.
I linger there, the coins within my jeans
Burning a hole with teenage, hungry scenes
Of sfogliatelle crisp, a ricotta dream,
A taste of home, it always would seem.
Down Bleecker Street, the music starts to bleed
From smoky clubs, a saxophone's wild creed.
Too young to enter, but I stand and stare,
At shadows dancing, lost within the air.
A yearning stirs, a restless, teenage fire,
To break these borders, climb a little higher
Than tenement roofs, the laundry in the breeze,
To find what waits beyond these crowded trees
Of brick and stone, this heritage so deep,
While Little Italy holds secrets that I keep.
The rumble of the subway, underground,
A constant pulse, a never-ending sound.
It carries faces, stories yet untold,
Like mine, at nineteen, brave and slightly bold.
I kick a loose stone on the cracked sidewalk,
Another night is coming, like a hawk
Descending softly on the city's gleam.
Nineteen in Little Italy, a vibrant, waking dream.