I was born, the fifties, New York City,
though I wish I’d grown up in a small town,
near a stream perhaps, water racing down,
I’d embrace that life with alacrity.
I’m sure though I’d display tenacity,
right after donning high school’s cap and gown,
to move north to the urban sprawl or drown,
bright lights appeal to my insanity.
They’d chew me up, innocent from the grotto,
break me down, leave me sad and despondent,
unable to cope, keep up with the pace.
No, better to have grown in the ghetto,
a six-story walk-up, a tenement,
nothing to sacrifice, no loss of grace.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 