one summer morning

a thin black man

in jeans blotched

by stains is standing

at the foot of the stairs

immobilized and growling.

stairs that lead to the mezzanine

plazas of those towers my father built.

he holds a green cellophane candy

wrapper in one hand reading and

barking and making no move

to climb the steps.

the balconies

of the

apartments

above are being

repaired, sections

of concrete have been

chiseled away and rebar

shows between rough edged

holes and gaps and looks very

much like the photographs

of places hit by rockets

or artillery shells,

damaged and

waiting for

repairs and

quick setting

concrete patches.

a red tootsie roll pop

lies on the sidewalk

unwrapped and just one

small splintered piece

beside it and a pigeon

is eating popcorn

in the gutter