Under the cold water
he slips his soiled hands
a shy bar of soap
assists but does not remove
the grime under his fingernails
why must life be so *****?
a malfunctioning bulb illuminates
on his reflection he reflects
eyes? alert
mouth? uncommonly voluptuous
nose? too large
but that is only a face
and we all have one of those
mostly
sweat, little rivu…lets
scamper down his fruzzled face
time for a shave soon
much misery behind those dark orbs
brains also
a faint scent of slow wood clings to his neck
was it a thousand years ago or
yesterday that she flung his jeans
and the mechanic’s shirt
with his name stitched over the left pocket
(spelled wrong, by the way)
in slow motion out the third story window
evicted him
and as he walked away smiling
a toothbrush clanked against his head

before quiet fathers
and weeping mothers
gentle sisters
stalwart brothers
 
before tying up
all loose ends
before small children
before friends
 
before sweet days
that lie ahead
the years of laughter
tears, and strength
 
before jubilant sun
that brightly sings
before melting snow
and newborn spring
 
before soft grass
and fragrant earth
before times of joy
sorrow, mirth
 
before the road
we stand as two
becoming one
(i do, i do)

out of wood,
a simple boat
Joe, with calloused hands
shaped and coaxed,
(dreaming of
distant yellow sands)
 
wind skimmed over shore
and Joe
sail, (tall) unfurled
pushed his craft
into the void
to understand the world

we ate government cheese
that came in a dull brown box
we were too young
to understand what welfare
and food stamps meant,
our empty bellies never protested
at the salty orange blocks

in front of the bodega,
we saw a woman introduce a hammer
to a drunk tyrant’s skull
his blood pooling on the streets
was too red for new eyes

we watched hypodermic needles
bloom on stoops
cling to life on curbs
the graffiti on abandoned buildings
was our Louvre, our Salon de Paris
sweltering streets our baseball diamonds
prostitutes, black or brown or both
mothered us between shifts

we grew up in projects,
that sheltered drab lives
and senseless brutalities
gunfire, sharp and immutable
punctured lullabies

we were small boys
watching life unfold
the way one stares at an accident
detached and mildly curious
eyeing cooly the despair
and impossible hopelessness
of growing up poor
in Brooklyn