As a kid in the seventies it was
the last stop on the red line, first stop
to cool, Picasso prints at the coop
and frozen yogurt with granola

when in the suburbs we were still
excited by spaghetti-os and jello
parfaits. It meant crepes and café
au lait and some guy singing Dylan

with a sign: Help wipe out disco
in our life time; imported tapestries
and Grolier’s where I bought e e
cummings hoping to wipe out

capital letters in my life time while down
back alleys that led to the river,
crew shells and joggers, pathways
to the future. In the natural history

museum I was supposed to be
impressed by glass flowers
but instead fell for the whale bones
and the patched levis of the guy
in front of me buying foreign
language magazines at the kiosk
in what was the center of the world,
of this square, of our lives.