EAST BOSTON – 1955
It’s three blocks from the subway to the candy-factory.
Two short blocks of simple businesses, a barbershop,
Tin-smith, Mary’s grocery store, a bowling alley one flight up.
In summer, tavern doors open, men’s bars mostly.
Some are noisy, gregarious, one is dark, dank, like a cave,
Longshoremen, railyard workers, petty gangsters, sports fans,
Bookies and thieves of busted crates and opened boxcars.
One long block, the projects, a red and white brick monolith.
Tall and square along a wide cobblestone street,
That borders the waterfront with its wharves and weedtrees.
Windows close by the sidewalk, voices, radios,
The clatter of dishes and the smells of cooking.
Window-screens bulged and broken by the foreheads of curious youth.
Youngsters by the score, playing whist in doorways.
Sitting on stoops, hanging from railings and banisters,
Playing half-ball with mopsticks, throwing pebbles from roof tops.
Which is more threatening to the women
Who come from the subway early each morning?
To make that three block walk to the candy-factory,
Then back again to the subway in the afternoon.
The mornings must be a pleasure, the streets empty and quiet.
Compared to the afternoons, crowded with youngfolk and old
Who stop and stare at the women who come from another world
To make chocolate candies in a nine storied building down by the harbor,
That separates their world from ours, Black from white.