I remember my old block

Somewhere on that block was my house.
The one with the chalk drawings out front, that washed away every time it rained,
Or were spray painted over with the hose.
The one where my feet tapped their way down the pavement,
Inscribing the souls of my shoes in the concreat,
Sneakers shuffeling on the side walk in  a game of street hockey.
I watched it from my bedroom window when I was suposed to be asleep.
The sound of feet keeping time and acustic guitar playing in the house up stairs,
Never seemed to stop.
I could always hear them,
The way I could hear my neighbor watering her plants in the early morning,
And our backyard neighbors with the highest fence,
Speaking French.
I would watch them through the fence when I got boared.
They almost always seemed to be playing their pool. I was jealous of that.
Sometimes the lady who worked at the hair solon just up the block whould sneak me and the neighborhood kids lollipops.
I liked that. 
I liked the way the neighbors and us used to always come up with games to play on the corner of our street.
It was always the corner with the big tree, across from the telephone pole with a million peices of paper stapeled onto it.
I remember it,
The way I remembered the neighbors,
And the sound of radios playing from open windows.
If nothing else, I will always remember that street as my old block.