Chip off the Old Block

You can see the streets of my youth

etched into every furrow of my mouth.

From the ugly scars across my brow

down to the crowsfeet accents

scratched around my staggered gaze.

You can get a good view of the neighborhood

in which I was raised 

from the angle of my slouched shoulders

and the exact spot where I lost

my first fist fight, marked 

on the right side of my chin. 

You could feel the warmth

of my Mothers kitchen if 

you were to lay your head

upon my heaving chest.

You could almost feel the breath

of my Father as his voice boomed

down the corridoors of North 6th,

or catch a whiff of his Stetson scent from

just hearing me talk about him.

You can believe that my skin

holds the odor of a hundred suns

and a hundred loves. The streets

I grew up in were the streets of

another age.  Where lights on meant 

you were home, and darkness was whatever

Dads were doing in their attics or basements.

You can look at me and see,

more plainly than this crooked nose on my face

is indicating, the block I came from,

left a little piece of itself attatched to me.

Reviews

[paulina misiewicz]

yep, me like it :) nice piece of writing, like a memoire...lets not forget where we came from! I like the way you're switching between past and now and how you plunge into all those feeling/ memories you have about your parents. yet you're tough. nice job!!
(little suggestion ;p you could feel the warmth instead of can, and maybe mother starting with capital letter as well?)