Those big oily birds cleaning
their feathers on the roof,
what are they called? The
radio crackles. All over
the city installations open
their white walls to greet us
with mystification. Blind
the grey arthritic cat leans
his clouded head on his paw
waiting for footsteps. Wind
plays the chime. How
can it be the first and last
time all at once? The old
woman hobbled out of
the school bus. So much
sun, dead middle of summer,
worse than it's ever been. I love
baseball, it makes me angry
and hopeful for justice.
I once rode a boat all night
past the dark islands,
my fingers were playing
a tiny violin everyone heard,
no one knew what it was,
they thought a music box
in the luggage had opened.
I remember holding a coin,
but not why I said I too
see the lights of Tunisia,
Brooklyn, Spain, it took
ages to cross three avenues
through the morning
to where I could sit
down like an American
and start writing this for you.