There was Cornelia Avenue and Allison Road.
There was the exotic wrong turn down Rita Court, the girls in flamenco dresses dancing in the street out front of the all-night bodega. When I was fourteen, I remember walking home down Lisa Lane, the silhouette of a woman changing in the window.
There were the blurry nights wasted on Carol in our favorite bar. The coffee shop off Florence, with that too young, dark-haired barista that made the cappuccinos scream.
But of all the boulevards named for the daughter of some Capulet, none were as close to home as the year I lived with you on Elizabeth Street.
