Home by Robert Winner is an interesting poem about his home in the Bronx in the 1930s and onward, and how he sees it. The visual details are very vivid such as the lines "driving past those small hills/blighted for miles with bleak/six-story desert-like apartments" and "in its damp and dingy streets, living my life". He then makes a comment about how it probably used to look without landfills and delapidated buildings and what not. The poem in the packet is unfortunatly not the whole thing, but I'd imagine the poem continues on with these themes where he paints a very bleak outlook on his home, and yet somehow makes the reader (me) want to visit it and see what it was like back then, since I hear it is actually fairly nice now.
Brian Michael Dunar
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