I remember being poor–
On the coldest nights of winter
We slept in the kitchen,
The oven on, warming the air.

We lived along the Detroit river,
Just a step away from fireworks.
We’d watch ships sail by
Or explore the train-yard,
Its tracks leading
To places that shone with gold.

We lived in a post-war bungalow,
Its gabled roof bowing to time,
A hushed skeleton of wood and nail.
The walls, cold as morning steel,
Held the quiet of working hands.

My father worked hard,
My clothes were hand-me-downs.
One brother built his own bike
From discarded scraps.

My older brother was a pin-setter
At a bowling alley nearby,
And both fought street gangs
So the streets would let them pass.

A “blind pig” bar was beside us…

And once, a violent pimp
With some of his girls, moved in–
Till the cops shut them down.

We might have been poor,
The walls were thin,
Cold slipped in like an unwanted guest,
And outside, the night was filled
With sirens, shouts, and breaking glass.

But inside– my parents were in love.
They played the glorious voices
Of tenors and sopranos,
Drowning out a prostitute’s screams,
Dragged by the hair
Or choked and slapped on the street.

When drunks stumbled
Out of the Drake Tavern
They dropped change
We’d divvy up for candy.
We didn’t have a lot
But we had each other.

It didn’t matter where we lived,
Our parents were rich in love,
Their music and laughter,
The wealth of our joy
And family was our fortune.