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