My prison was the projects, they called them Briardale, as if we were burrs that needed removing,
30 some kids per block, socks for gloves, and salvation army hand-me-downs, water on our cereal cause there was never enough milk, and liver and onions served often, cause it was 20 cents a pound. I chewed my way through two bedposts and three windowsills, just to get a taste of something other then poverty.
We were set dead center in the middle of suburban bungalows, where the better off kids lived, who weren't allowed to hang with us, but most of the more fortunate guys spent their free time copping truly cheap feels, from the project girls, and the girls loved the gangers, the sense of danger, and rebellion they emitted was like a musk wetting well-to-do libidos.
I spent much of my life dreaming, writing poetry of far off places I'd never seen, wishing I was somewhere else, till the draft became my genie, and I began wishing I was back in that humble hovel I once despised.
Now it's a golf course, and the ninth hole is where my house used to be, and childhood is but an elusive memory, yet I find myself willing to give up anything to spend one week back in that place, where the girl next door, set my heart jackhammering, and the whap of a stick ball got my once nimble feet dancing over garbage can lid bases.
Now I live in the luxury of an adult hood, with endless stimulation and plenty to spend, but I know so few of the joys of not having yet truly being delighted with what little there was.