Both my parents were the children of immigrants. They worked in the mills of Lawrence, MA. When I was young, my dad brought home a chapbook of poetry, written by a fellow worker, Henry Boulanger. I came across the book today and the very first poem brought back, oh so many memories.
Cliff Dwellers by Henry Boulanger
The block was long, dark and ugly.
In it existed many a family.
It was not low, but many stories high.
You could see full clothes lines as you went by.
Each person has his little corner to exist in
There you'll find some has-been.
They are of all Nationalities, in an alley behind
a street called Main.
Cliff Dwellers by Henry Boulanger
The block was long, dark and ugly.
In it existed many a family.
It was not low, but many stories high.
You could see full clothes lines as you went by.
Each person has his little corner to exist in
There you'll find some has-been.
They are of all Nationalities, in an alley behind
a street called Main.
