I remember our Milwaukee neighborhood, made up of
tidy bungalows, side-by-side, all with big front porches
where parents and neighbors relaxed, watched over us.
It was full of voices and sounds all day long:
kids’ shrill cries as they chased summer, and each other,
down the block and over to the pool; the satisfying, loud
rattle of playing cards stuck to bike wheels, when we
raced each other down the hill and to the corner;
the ragman’s voice chanting and the tinkle of the cart-bell,
each time his ancient horse took a step; war whoops and 
cap guns while we kids played cowboys-and-Indians 
in the vacant lot at the end of the block; the musical jingle 
of the big horses’ harnesses and the thud of their feet
when the garbage men came down the middle of the street, 
then the hollow clank of empty cans, set back on the curb; 
the small clink of the milkman’s glass bottles in a wire basket, 
and the welcome clunk, in the kitchen, when he put them 
in the milk chute; hushed giggles from our favorite hiding place, 
under the back porch, and the heavy thud of grownup feet
going up the steps. But the best sound, the one we all 
strained to hear, on days when sidewalks burned bare feet,
was the ice cream man’s bell, ringing the same two notes,
while he pushed his shiny white cart along the street gutter; 
the jingle of the coins when he made change, along with the 
slurping of hot, sweaty kids devouring ice-cold popsicles 
and dreamsicles, juices dripping, making sticky tracks 
down dirty faces and arms. Finally, the last sounds, after the
street-lights came on, the distinct cadence of each mom’s voice,
calling all of our names, over and over, calling us . . . home.