it's late

it's the tangle of black
wires, telephone
and power, these cables
stretched like webs from
pole to pole you see first,
and then the low bricked
buildings, flat roofed
and trimmed in the color
of the poor, pale green
and peeling. these homes,
edged by weeds, the struggle
of leafless trees,
the neighborhood of youth,
where you chalked the street
for games, where you ran
until dusk, until your
mother, out an open
cranked window, called
each name. come in. come
in. come in. it's late.
dinner is on the table.