Sonnet. To Tell the Truth

To tell the truth, those brick Housing Authority buildings For whose loveliness no soul had planned, Like random dominoes stood, worn out and facing each other, Creating the enclosure that was our home. Long basement corridors connected one house to another And had a special smell, from old bicycles and baby carriages In the storage rooms. The elevators Were used by kissing teenagers. The playground—iron swingchains, fences, iron monkey bars, Iron seesaw handles, doubtless now rusted— Left a strong iron smell on my hands and in the autumn air And rang with cries. To me it is even precious Where they chased the local Mongoloid, yelling “Stupid Joey! Stupid Joey!” Now I’ve said everything nice I can about this.