SARGENT AVE, BY THE NUMBERS
A six-minute walk to the library, five to the park. The neighborhood pool doesn’t come recommended. Spanish is spoken at the nearest bodega. The in-house butcher makes fine linguiça. A gallon of Pearl Street milk: four thirty-nine. Scratch tickets lie ripped into rough squares: their numbers secret. Lucky, even if they’ve yet to win. Take a left at the front-yard catamaran. Can’t miss it.
I neglected to mention that this poem was published, just a little while back, in Stone Canoe, issue 7 (link to magazine).