Mi Calle

My street is dark and twisted,
it has the flavor of a port and the name of a poet.
Narrow and dirty, it smells of people,
and the balconies are filled with laundry hanging out.
My street ain't worth two cents:
it's a hundred broken doorways and a fountain
where kids and cats drink, pigeons and dogs.
It's a corner where the sun never shines,
a regular street.

My street has five streetlights
so the kids can throw rocks.
There's a boarding house and three bakeries,
and a bar on every corner.
My street is full of people from everywhere,
working and drinking, sweating and eating,
and they wake up with the first light,
and go to soccer every Sunday,
or fish for little ones at the pier,
or play dominoes with wine.

My street is a kid snacking on bread with oil and sugar,
and playing dice and 'cavall fort',
sometimes good, sometimes rough, altar boy and rascal.
My street from the lower neighborhood lives in the drawer of spinning tops,
with trading cards and the 'Nestlé' album
and pieces of an old stove.
And little by little, my street is falling apart.