Walking Home in the Middle of the Night

Hanging

Like a spotlight

Or a luminated lemon cookie

Over the tombstone eloquence of the Bronx,

The moon,

A cold white mint,

Walks me home from the subway.

My feet,

Like cobblestones attached at the ankles,

Slap the sidewalk.

Police cars,

Like nasty metal lizards,

Patrol the streets.

Cops eye me from behind closed windows.

Head low, I watch the asphalt.

The pawnshop

Has pulled down its armor

To discourage revenge.

An empty bus glides past

In the opposite direction.

I am alone again

With my faceless sexy friend,

The moon.

The awkward tenements

Are silent and swollen

With sleeping people.

It is a strange world

That leaves us so crowded and

Lonely.

1971