As with any person that comes to the city
others will say of him that he came to be
where the action is, looking for his share of the spoils
but the truth is, he came to put on his suit and toil
more than most newcomers here
he knew already what skyscrapers were:
a daywatch to guard the sun from you
and leave you long shadows to walk through—
even on his shaded way to the ad firms
he slides on his sunglasses, he squirms
through the crowds relishing a moment
of thick silence in a packed elevator, as if sent
on a mission to happy anonymity—
but to die at this point would be a cliché
he thinks, and goes to the shiner to shine his shoes black
black, color of the pavement, the suit, the tie and the hat
black, the color of the plush bruise
in an apricot’s skin, the fruit he adores
taking his time to pick out the finest,
juiciest, softest, the freshest
but this man! you would never know it
seeing him walk in the street
seeing his sunglasses over his eyes—
it’s only apricots that separate his from yours or mine
barely two inches of sugary meat
and some skin to get stuck in the teeth
eventually spat onto the sidewalk—
rubbed by passing shoe soles into a grayish spot