East Boston in the '80s, yeah, bit rough,

but on the whole? on balance?

far from terrible!

I liked our family's apartment

on the first floor of 44 Morris

where we lived between two Februaries,

that of '75 and that of '87.

Where I basically grew up.

The purple-carpeted cubicle of a bedroom

scarcely large enough for the bed

and the 12-inch rabbit-eared TV,

the room where I discovered John Irving's novels

and Dylan Thomas's poems.

Where I accidentally (how else?)

discovered the sin of Onan,

as it's been called.

Where I listened to the Smiths

toward the end of that twelve-year run.

These were the days

I could keep my bedroom window open

without blaring car radios

assaulting my ears,

with pleasant breezes entering the room,

with Mrs DiPasquale shouting out the window

to summon one of her sons,

Dominic or Sal.

The bedroom window opened onto an alley,

narrow and shade-rich and cool even in summer.

The back porch of the next triple-decker

jutted out into yardspace

diagonal from my windowsill.

Unintrusive. Quietish.

Just the right amount

of congenial noise.

The background noise of a neighbourhood

back in the day.