by bobbymillerwriting

New poem I wrote about Lake Street, Minneapolis, and it’s long history, give it a look!

Through Lakes to the River

Once, before anybody really remembers

Lake Street was called a county highway—synonym

for horses, and the stench of horse dung

but  also the feeling of freedom and living on the edge of the city and the farms

were so close a plow driver with a busted hitch could holler and be heard

and the saddle shop’d send an errand boy running

and if the boys were busy, or the plow too far out of sight

the old farmer would just drive the whole team out back his favorite shop and get it worked out right there.

Holiday, in those days, meant double headers

where both towns would meet at Nicollet Park on Lake in the morning

and Lexington Park in St. Paul for the afternoon,

but nobody watches minor league baseball anymore

and no one remembers which team Willie Mays started for.

But before the smell of peau d’espange from…

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