From the gray three-decker,
Terry yells all day to her kids,
Georgy and Vincent, on the street below.
She’s young, slick, hair cut
in the poodle style. This is the 50s;
her sweaters have conical breasts.
Something wrong with her marriage
sends Terry out to work; her mother,
in a downstairs flat, watches the boys.
Working for Mr. Siegel, a Boston lawyer,
each morning Terry ambles to the bus.
Her husband’s moved out by now.
Soon the lawyer is driving up
in his huge Lincoln to take her out
for the evening. The whole neighborhood
watches as he waits and she yells,
“Georgy, Vincent, mind Grandma!”
She saunters to the car in crisp dresses,
high heels, newly poodled hair.
So that’s where I grew up, the kind
of neighborhood where married lawyers’
married girlfriends lived.