Like a Neighborhood


      where bins contain
only stone-green mangos 
and pocked plantains, 
where the girl from Seoul
who paints your toes
can’t afford a churro,
where the truck 
that sells HELADO 
capsizes, spatters 
syrup on the walk
outside the check
cashing store, where 
windows are darkened
by the greed of land-
lords, where
a charitable passerby
finds as many
HELP ME signs
as there are pebbles 
on the Simón 
Bolivar Playground, 
or bottle caps in Broke
Benches Park,
where cries of God
Jesus Jesus Alleluia
Love Love Love issue  
from the lips of
an unhinged pastor 
brandishing his Book 
of Echoes—as hollow,
fruitless, and repetitious  
as the overwrought
confession of your own 
dissatisfactions. 





Missing Boy
New York, October, 2012

Cops are combing the boroughs, 
prowling sullen streets.
They flash their brights, and radio 
a voice he’ll know: Avonte,
it’s Mom. You’re safe. 
Run to the lights. 

Avonte Oquendo Perdido
like a phrase in Esperanto.
His eyes, in the photo, 
are those of a faun
that can’t explain,
though it knows.

The search is on 
for a gray and white
shirt, black sneakers and jeans. 
Today, they question the rains,
tomorrow, the snows.
Months later, an answer
roils the salt water.

O river, rivero!





Night Repair


I fell asleep to the neep neep  
neep of a truck backing up
along a hundred twelfth 
street, then up the bank 
past the monument 
                       to Samuel Tilden, 
once almost President, now  
wrapped in a bronze 
frock coat. Cautiously,
                      the vehicle
crossed a stream
to Riverside Park, 
where it plunged
into a sleep so deep
                      that eyelids
ceased their rapid
movement and memory 
was lost, but repair was 
                      complete 
before children came 
to fill the jungle gyms. 





The Priest-Conductor


Ladies and gentlemen. blessed 
art Thou, and full of Grace.
Be safe. Never go onto the tracks.  
If you drop something, leave it
among women. Hail Mary, 
the fruit of her womb,
Jesus, or a Metropolitan Transit 
Authority employee. 

At the hour of our death, 
use the station customer 
assistance help line.  And 
if, for any reason,
you have to cough or sneeze,
please do it into a tissue.
The Lord be with you.