My voice is back in da Bronx,
on Gouveneur Avenue,
itís with the guys on the rail
by Van Cortlandt Park,
where Bronx talk was talked
for hours on end,
and went down smooth as the egg creams
at the M&M
luncheonette on Sedgwick.
These were voices that didnít talk
about voices, or have conversations about them,
for they knew each other, these voices,
and sometimes a grunt was enough
to communicate whole thoughts, the Yankee box score, and then some,
like whether youíd be playing stickball tomorrow,
These voices didnít travel well. They got lost.
And you know what happens when
a Bronx voice speaks and there is no Bronx ear
to hear it.