Esmerelda sits beside
the ten ton granite boulder
pried from some Pleistocene moraine
embedded now between
the blue-mirrored towers
of the downtown mini plaza.
With nibbling lips unkissed
since the previous July,
she picks ant-sized chips
of black nail polish
off the slender fingers
of her un-ringed left hand,
while her right scrolls down
an endless screen
of food truck exotica
sent by friends unseen
for weeks on end:
Bacon wrapped ‘round anything
promising to restore
the sizzle that has dribbled off
since boyfriend Bill's retreat.
Key lime infused elixirs
whisper drink me and I’ll whisk you
off to sugary beaches where
the breeze is warm and sweet,
as if treats for her belly
could satisfy the cravings
of more Southern regions.
The noon sun slips
behind the peak
of the latest high rise lair
and a shadow spills
across the plaza.
Esmerelda rises
from her stony seat,
drops her lunch bag
in the maw of the trash bin
on the corner. Sparrows quickly
swoop to vanish the crumbs
she's left scattered at her feet.
Tom, who waits
for the signal to change
across the street, admires
the gleam of Esmeralda's
long black hair. He smiles
as they pass by each other
in the crosswalk, but fails
to catch her eye.
He kicked the trash bin
on the corner. Three times.
Spun around waving
his fist in the air.
Ran dirt blackened fingers
though the nest of his hair,
shouted at the panicking pigeons
in the financial district air,
-Your whores and ideas
hurt my head.
What poison is this,
polluting his mind,
imbibed at his mother’s
tit or felt with his fathers fist?
or lost in the cold sands
of a mountain village
where hell severed
his last connection
to the divine.
The indigent lady
who sits in her wheelchair
outside Starbucks
holding her cardboard sign
that implores “can you help?”
blesses me for the two dollars
I drop in her cup and smiles sadly
as the young man
careens down Battery Street
cursing sandwiches, smartphones,
and short skirts.
The corner lady inquires
how was my day?
and I say it was fine,
then I ask her
where do you stay?
Here and there, she says,
where do you,
is it nice?
The words were so damn thin
red ballpoint ink that blobbed
where she had hesitated.
I’m so sorry, i tried,
but it's not getting better
I just can't..... I fed the cat
the dishes are clean
I’m so sorry.
The car was gone
but not her suitcase.
My guts threatened
to hit the floor.
The woman who answered
my nine one one call
asked where she might go.
The bridge, I said. check the bridge.
But i was wrong.
She'd sought a gentler height
in fact no height at all,
no cliff from which to fall.
Out on the sandy spit
at the end of the road.
A mistaken destination
where the edge of the world
is flat and sandy, and the sea
disappears from the beach
as it reaches towards
the curve of infinity
and the distant shore
of the land of the rising sun.
The officer who came
to the house, stood there
at the counter, while the cat
hid under the couch.
A message crackled
in his earpiece
then he said,it's ok
she's on her way home.
