West, up Tremont Avenue, 
mom lets me tug the stop bell. 
Miss Drew shares an apartment 
with six cats. Their stink 
assaults us at the door. 

I amuse myself 
by the barred window 
with my G.I. Joes. Mom 
and Miss Drew speak 
on nothing I’ll remember. I recall 

only the old lady’s butterscotch hair 
and fish bowl glasses—her broken 
Irish voice gabbing with mom.
They drink tea from faded blue
patterns on white china. 

Outside I see the courtyard 
washed clean by winter. No bench 
sitters, no path walkers—a gloom 
that shrouds me in colors 
I’ll grow to hear in jazz piano. 

Colors that’ll return in six years, 
when fewer than fifteen come 
to mourn Miss Drew in St. Raymond’s. 
Soon, it’s time to take the bus 
back down Tremont. 

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