held petty-wage jobs longer
it seemed than her bitter life in a
country that only called her spic.
my old man died a veteran of
a foreign war for a country never
home, freedom not ever his, and
that fine White House not taking
calls now from people with dark
skin. my old mother died nearly
alone in a convalescent home, crying
the nurses said every night to get
hell out, hearing the scratchy
sounds of her first born son laid
for final rest too young in a Staten
Island grave, alone. I see them
clearly in my slice of the world,
pray forgiveness for cursing them,
plead their cause present in the faces
of new immigrants, terrified refugees,
Black, Red, Yellow and poor White
lives. they told me one day a long box
would fall out of heaven to collect people
full of hate who dance around lynching
trees—I promised to do my part to hasten
the drop!
Salsa Night
in the café the salsa band
charms the crowd, the eyes
are on the little man running
his stubby fingers over the keys
of an upright piano, trombones
slide notes to the corners of the
room, two trumpets have a long
conversation with the congas still
showing a tiny overlooked price
tag dangling from a lug, and at a
table next to the bass player sit a pious
looking couple ready to write Psalms
on the dance floor. life everywhere
in the club can easily be seen through
the window facing the street, felt by
aching souls, bleeding feet, colorless
dreams, and the spinning high places
never seen. in the café the salsa players
offer oil for childish days, harmonies
that set us free, and songs that make us
glad to weep—come and see!
The Future
the future is the long sidewalk
with grandmothers pulling simple
wheeled grocery carts, kids playing
on the street, single mothers disappearing
in church, and Nuyorican youth trying
hard to please the old Irish priest’s God.
the future is quietly kneeling in the dark,
praying for fathers to hold their liquor each
Friday night, waking up for another day of
school, and leaving the classroom not saying
that sucked. the future is reaching for the
ones who are gone like a miracle crawling
from the flower garden on the empty lot
of the block with its own procession of
house birds. the future is a matter
of Spanish shouting in tongues, Angels
loudly clapping, time without so much
public strife, and the precious browning
of these streets. the future in a drop of
light, shows our lovely colored faces
on this block where nations meet—so I’ll
sit a little longer on this stoop watching
a new world spinning into shape.
Passages
one by one the memories
stored the length of many
years rise in unexpected
places to walk you back in
time and help you feel the
sustaining mystery of each
simple day. you laugh alone
on a favorite park bench lost
in dreamy things in a body
pushing an age each week
more tattered than the favorite
book you carry to page in the
caressing wind. you look up
at the heavens wondering what
the sky looked like the day you
were born, who told stories of
the distant moon and stars, the
feeling of that first night with
breath. you recall playing on
the streets, the first time you
delighted touching brown earth,
and seeing childish things you
still
