At six
I was a city weed
(grown from the concrete square
we jokingly called a yard),
transplanted from Chicago
to a suburban station wagon world
(mom! look at all the trees here!)
of green shaded streets.

Leaving the shoebox apartment
for a real house
seemed a miracle,
but maybe
the riots of 1968
were too close to home.

We waited, huddled by the TV
(is there LSD in the water?
don't drink it!)
for the latest news
(only a stone's throw away
from Lincoln Park)
in the heat over the parkway.

Mother feared for us
after they burned the church
on Palmer Square
two blocks away,
leaving a charred skeleton,
(a crucifix
for the neighborhood
to pray by)
and the gangs came
to the steamy street.

I came home one day
from an August afternoon
of fire hydrants and Tastee Freeze
to find
policemen
hitting some strange people
(who are they?),
all looking at me
from the single unblinking eye
of the TV —
"The whole world is watching."
(mom, why are the policemen
hitting those people?
why don't they stop ...)
it seemed too cruel
(mother crying over dinner).

Maybe the riots
of 1968
were too close to home
to make the green haven
to the north
(where is the old house
from here, dad?)
seem a miracle.