Some might say this house on Clinton St. (Penn Yan, New York)
Was the best house in which I’ve ever lived.
But I’d beg to differ on the basis of memories past and present.
Not understood then; not wanting to understand now.
For no veneer of a respectable home on a respectable street
(Whatever respectable might mean to the readership I entreat)
Can likely remove the insult I sensed at 10 as a preteen
And still know to be with me in 2016.
An insult hurled by a neighbor in the next block up
Who refused to let his only child and my best friend,
Come to play at my house—the best house I’ve ever lived in.
Her dad, a lawyer; mine, an assembly-line worker
Who, somehow didn’t deserve to live in that neighborhood?
Or, maybe it was that my mom took in temporary boarders
To help pay the mortgage—either scenario, not good.
