This should be about Italy
but it’s hard to find its light etchings on my mind
with only hindsight,
and when all the rush hour traffic of an island that swells
to twelve times its evening size
is barreling through the point between my eyes,
it’s a fight to stop squinting through heavy lashes
at the crosstown buses
and the taxis blurring by,
at the socks high, cap straight, stretch-necked father
posing sons and their smiles with the
Empire State,
at the hordes of black and white,
of heels and ties,
of ears buried in iPods while they wait for their light
cars stop
and they walk straight,
chins tethered strong to the horizon,
wearing blinders like a prayer to belong –
I see walls that stretch and yawn with the morning
on all sides
reaching up towards a vanishing point,
but somehow
a glimpse of sky still trickles through the spaces left
by joints bent open,
offering summertime embraces…
there isn’t much room on cross-streets for breath
or width
in this fit-me-in city,
unless you fix your gaze on the rooftops,
invisible from here,
but you can tell the metal fingertips are scraping fresh air –
but back on the ground
with the glares that glance off windows in my irises
the sound of each motor droning by
the purr of bike tires turning as they carve out their own slice of the one-way street
the water weighing in the heat
the sheen of sweat on backs and necks
and the frantic urge to check underarm fabric
the dizzy wafts of cologne
and of gasoline
the ticking seconds spent waiting for the 1 and the fickle breeze
the stray leaf from the sometimes-trees that rides its way through the gridlock,
settles in at my feet,
and the pavement
itching under track marks and trash
the attention it demands and
the attention that it lacks
the backs of every stranger
and the fronts of every friend…
every instant in this place turns concrete in the end
I can’t see
past the universe of my five senses
so, instead of sprawling views of terracotta roofs,
I write park benches
and let the subway grate’s rising scent engrave my bones,
line paper with traffic cones;
I find home
in the truck groans and flickering lights
and with my eyes wide open,
whites reflecting the sky,
I find home.
