Until I was ten years old we lived in a stiff dark apartment
Furnished with horsehair-stuffed mohair-covered settees
It was in the Bronx, on a mean street
Next to the El on Webster Avenue.
The train roared and clattered past our windows
Every few minutes
Shaking the dishes.
But in 1954 my father
Who was a struggling lawyer
Won an important case in the New York courts
And received a big fee for his efforts.
So he bought a turquoise Buick convertible with
Leather seats and
We moved to the Grand Concourse
My mother left all our things behind
Bought Danish modern sofas and chairs
New wall-to-wall carpets and
I had my own room.
We didn’t see much of our old neighbors
And friends after that
Because we had come up in the world
And that was the way
The world worked.