My front door slams shut
behind me,
no time for a desperado
to slip in
find shelter,
steal something,
take a quick sniff
Or jab.
I blink in the bright hot sun.

A neighbor
I’ve never noticed
stands among his possessions
newly evicted,
selling a wok, a bed frame,
for pocket change,
can’t carry it on his back
can’t leave it either.
I smell an ocean breeze.

The wall woman watches
from her painted window,
cigarette hanging
between her lips,
baby in chains
in her belly,
big brown eyes
never blinking.
The birds are taking a siesta.

An old young man
shuffles by me,
back bent and bony,
talking to someone invisible
about the ways of white men,
tin cans making music
like Santa’s sack
in the summer time.
Weeds are growing in the sidewalk.
.
A man from the offices
of the United Homeless
is curbed on the curb.
Last night the evening news
showed twenty seconds
of his speech to city hall.
Right now he’s in the gutter
with a bottle in a paper bag.
Only green leaves are on the tree.

The twins and their brothers
are on the corner
just like every day.
I nod to the Super
driving away in his pick-up.
Kids leave the Arab grocery
with candy,
adults with cheap beer.
Dead rat smell is lingering

The old drunk always sitting
on the Village Voices
invites me to suck his dick,
tells me it tastes good,
young man bumping into me
and not looking back,
bottle crashing and splintering
around my heels.
A cloud passes over my head.

The imported punks
have claimed the terrace
of the Rainbow Cafe,
closed for months now,
asking me for money
for beer,
heads in each others laps,
arms extended lazily.
A furry dog motionless in the heat.

Across tenth street
Uniformed police
Stand in neat rows.
Their command center on wheels
Catches me on video
As I turn left
And pass the nursery school
For mostly white kids.
The library is closed.

The steps accommodate
A few drunken homeless men
Who inform me that
I am too skinny
For their taste.
A little baby trips by
Taking it’s first steps
Hanging on to his mother’s hand.
The library is closed.

The library is closed.
Too late.
I’ll have to come back.
I pass the Life Cafe,
Looking just like it did
When it opened ten years ago,
Like its been waiting
For the last fifty years
To get fixed up a little.

Earl the trumpet player
Used to hang out at Life
And pick up white girls.
He used to know the melody
Of any song you could name,
Jazz, pop, whatever.
I see a woman kick a man
In the stomach and run away.
He just walks away.

I see Fran
former fashion model
wearing a helmet
and rubber gloves,
pants hitched and belted
around an anorexic waist,
walking in the middle of the street
unchanged since the day
her daughter disappeared.

Spice floats out the door of the
Carribean take out
and past my nose.
I never go in the little bodega
There’s all kinds of ways
to be rude when you hand someone
their change.
and plenty of places to
spend my two cents.

There’s a meeting going on in
The church of God Incorporated.
They’re raising the roof off the
Joint. There’s no windows, but
The sound of singing is busting out
Of the cracks.
Across the street the neon
Jesus saves sign
lights up for the night.

There’s a posse hanging out
in the one chair barber shop,
dance music blasting from inside.
Someone’s getting his head shaved
with a unique design.
A young man is washing his car.
and posturing for the giggling girls
coming up the block behind me.
I get splashed with the hose.

The windmill on the roof across the
street casts a shadow
on some solar panel frames
A young uptown girl
was raped in the basement
after plastering walls all day.
A young dark man was accused.
The solar panels never arrived.
The windmill never fully turned.

A man offers me crack, dope,
Tells me he can get me
Whatever I want.
When I don’t reply he claims
We met before,
Then he tells me I should smile.
Then he calls me a bitch.

When I reach my door
To my little cubicle,
My evicted neighbor
And his stuff
Are gone.
Just another little turn
Around the block.