Philly Boy

A city of neighborhoods, it's been called in a song. With row houses like Legos, my block fifty long.. I grew up poor as dirt, with not a spec to be found. It was asphalt and concrete, which lined all the ground.. Our fathers were heros to us, they worked hard for their clan. With calluses covering, every inch of their hand.. Times they were hard, for the uneducated trade. Your choice of tool, the axe, pic, or the spade.. The funny thing is, I never knew I was poor. Never thought I had less, never needed much more.. No back yards on our block, just an alley to play. this was packed with thirty to forty kids everyday.. Wireball , stickball, jacks and jumprope. We'd build ramps for our bikes, and than jump the slope.. Our baseball field, was a parking lot. We'd chalk out the bases, how I miss the old spot. I wasn't raised by one Mom, but every Mom on the block. all doors were left open, there was no need to knock. Sometimes nostalgia grabs me, and I drive by the old hood. To see myself as a boy, most likely up to no good..