HOME THOUGHTS FROM A BROAD

Yo, to be in Yonkers

                                    Now that April’s sere,

                                    An whoever wakes in Yonkers

                                    Sees, some morning blear,

                                    Rows of hoists an forklifts an factories smokin,

                                    The expressway always chokin,

                                    While madam croons like a love-sick cow

                                    In Yonkers – now.

                       

                                    An after April, when May follers,

                                    An the slick Hudson is roilin across them hollers,

                                    An the sweet waft of syrup and molasses ground

                                    Chokes that dry gasp of inks an oil an grease,

                                    Me, I’m doin sidewalk business downtown,

Cruisin the brownstones, schmoozin easy.

Then one time my gigolo swore he’d carve a Bronx sunset

On the chest of a reglar.  O my, a black beau.  A grizzled vet.

Grin like a bashed fender.  As soon buy me a daiquiri an talk

As hump me down some dark alley, then walk.

This Leroy’s skirt had skedaddled with both kids.

But he’d tumbled me too late.  Shucked, man, on the skids.

The only guy who never made me cower.

Called me his gaudy melon-flower.

                                                                       Michael Small