“The Feast of SS Peter and Paul”
or, a day in the Bronx.
Along the street the signs of Fordham road
Look gaudy, bright and crass, and clash in colors
Lacking all rhythm. Down below a man
Is hawking mangoes carved like yellow flowers;
Some soiled salesman shouts his cell-phone sale;
Voyeurs are bending awkward, twisted torsos
And shouting after scarce-dressed señoritas:
Nor can a woman white or black expect,
In picking careful steps amidst the garbage,
That any man will help her if she fall.
You all are free: what glad remuneration!
Thanks, dear reader, should you ever find me, for helping me cultivate my home.