In Hoboken, before the Diaspora
When streets burst with the aura of their foreign tongues
And vowels were strong with Spanish, German or Italian singsong
I met a family of fourteen, twelve stepping stone children
A mom and pop
Tenants in the basement apartment
Next door.
They were friendly to distraction
Yet quite easy to forget
Until a need to help or to be helped
Inspired me to borrow their eldest
To baby sit for my rest.
She was pleasant and demure.
The Caribbean sun and the green banana stains
Kept vigil on her young and dreaming
Smiling face.
One day I asked her with care as she folded diapers and stared
Are you sad for being poor? Do you dream of having more?
She surprised me with her answer unexpectedly sincere:
"We are not poor Miss, we are happy!
Daddy works while mom does housework
And as she cooks our evening meal
We each sit on our chair proper
To form a chain through
The two bedroom railroad flat
Ending by the kitchen door.
Dad sit on the parlor, at the head
Next to him the oldest,
Then the next, so the baby is closest
To mom’s breast.
We tell stories, laugh and sing
While mother cooks our rice and beans.
Please believe me Miss
We are rich."
Ofelia Rodriguez Goldstein