The sun beaming down on us,
tanned skins roaming and
accent heavy tongues licking piragua.
Everyone is gathered;
the children running with bare feet through the crescent fall of summer relief spritzing from the hydrant.
Abuelas gossiping on the bench
as they reminisce their own barefoot childhood on the islands.
Abuelos slamming dominoes on the tables,
their blood pressure and glucose far from their mind as they sip on their beer and maltas.
The boys are wolf calling the girls
as they pile over chips and soda,
and the girls wink and walk away;
their Spanish hips swaying

this way

and

that way.

Men playing ball on the blacktop,
the peeling bare orange hoop
only clangs without its swishing net.
You can hear Bachata, Big Pun and B.I.G. blaring from the big stereo speaker,
resounding not only over the screams, laughter and cat calls
but also the honking horns and screeching of passing cars.
This is our block.
This is our summer.
Vivid now as it was in my childhood.
Our childhood.
Our hood.
It's not always this peaceful.
It's certainly won't be.
But the pride in our hood comes from moments like these.