From a Gas Station Near Fordham University
Where is this kid, my friend says.
We're waiting on the hood of his car with
the smell of gasoline in our nostrils, watching
people move down streets that cross like
a thousand crucifixes with nails of every color,
while apartment buildings loom above, singing
to us with music and conversations in tongues
other than English. Across the street a man screams
The subway is rattling deep underground beneath
our sneakers like an old pagan god.
My family came
from Italy to Manhattan, moved to the Bronx and
then to the ghost suburb where I was born, with it's
empty streets and people trapped in central air-
conditioned cages. The car horns and crowds comfort
me, more than hollow "Hellos!" from the neighbors can.
A red dragon flies past to quench it's thirst for fire,
and I can feel my roots stir under my feet.
Don't rush him, I said. He'll be here in a second.