The Stoop

I had an old picture that someone found in a garage sale recently, and I used it as a prompt to write this poem. I could not upload the picture onto the blog, so I used one I found online that was similar. I don't have a brother, but when I lived in New York City growing up, we did have a stoop.

The Stoop
Christopher Bogart

There was a stone stoop
At the entrance to the New York City apartment building
In which we grew up.
My brother and I used it as our private front porch on which
We lounged on summer mornings, waiting for friends,
Played stoop ball on summer afternoons with a bright pink Spauldeene ball,
Or sat and talked with friends on cool evenings
Until our mother shouted “Bedtime!”
Through the fly-specked screen of the living room window.

Yet the times I most remember
Are the Sunday mornings before church
When Master Young and Master Younger,
All dressed up in their “Sunday, going to Church” best,
Sat on the stoop and waited for their parents to come out and
Pack them in the black and chrome Chevrolet with the duck tapped back handle
To go to fulfill their Sunday Obligation.

“I call the front seat.” My brother would crow
As he adjusted his brown felt fedora, just like Dad’s.
He in his long grown up pants, long enough to cover the elastic of his socks
But not the scuffs on his shoes from forbidden Sunday play,
And me in my little boy shorts and baby white shoes.

He was the eldest. The heir.
And I, the spare.
“Why do you always get the front seat?” I whined in mock resentment.
“Because Mom and Dad like me best.” Was his arrogant reply.

Mom and Dad did like him best,
I thought later from the back seat of the Chevy.
But then,
So did I.