Dream and Dream and Dream
Mama, as everything was going on
I was watching, always watching you
crossing the Bronx streets when I was five
taking my big sister to school
you were crossing me
but, really, I was crossing you
when my father would let go your hand
in the middle of a vast boulevard
when cars rumbled when trucks roared
Always, mama, always
wanting to make it better for you
even though there was no way
when Superman flew
the blind girl around the world
and she could see again
I wanted him to come break
through the front windows
and take you
bring you back seeing
setting you down in the little square
living room or on the back porch
so you too could see all the
birds and the great Oak
and then could dance
around the corner
along Southern Boulevard
all the way to Tremont
All the places, just think, mama—
the story clouds, the platypus at the zoo,
elephants, the island in the Pacific
where, surely, you’d be a princess
Just think, we could cheat the
night custodian to off-load all the fear
and float on the aimless wind—
the sky is loud, mama, loud
Well, I could always go to sleep, anyway
and dream and dream and dream
sometimes there’s a song you can’t know
but you can sing, nonetheless
• • •
Bronx-born Allen Shadow has been a cook, a cabdriver, a correspondent, and a composer. His gritty style has been forged by the streets of New York. His work has been cited by Library Journal for its “startling imagery” and has appeared in The New York Times and many literary journals.