Mulberry Street

Under tenement windows the immigrant flow,
so many- their long sighs, exhaling the old
country, inhaling a street in a city; at their backs
the sounds of horses hooves, the barrow boys
feet with shadows striding behind- their only

Wash in the rain puddle water; sounds of
exhaustion from the 15 hour ticking sweatshop
children- steam from clothing presses spewing
down sewer drains into the canals of waste, they
run like the rattle of emigrant ships in passage-

In the buildings, no sounds of running water; in
alleyways, rubbish bins full of broken promises,
the immigrants search for the roots of their pasts
in handfuls of dust, footsteps from the old country
shuffling in their dreams- the sound of withered

Stumps; withering sun- the city pursues relentless,
the flatfoot cops, the muggers den, graft burning
like cigarette ends in sandwich paper, the immigrants
starved, rain pressing lidless eyes closed. …barking
dogs of a short life, the end requires no response.

Copyright © 08/17/2016 lance sheridan®


3 comments on “Mulberry Street

  1. As the daughter of immigrants, I felt this on a personal level.

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