reading Puerto Rican obituary
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58396/puerto-rican-obituary
reminds me of a time in NYC, well
the Bronx, over the bridges from the city,
among the brick towers,
dead grass along the entryway,
narrow staircases through dimly lit, grimly halls, four story walk ups,
the smell of piss and vomit that the bleach can not dissipate,
doorways all the same color, except the number,
a relative answers the door,
the couch and chairs covered in plastic, so it would last longer, you know,
the TV and telephone, signs of wealth,
the walls pink, the decorations the bright colors of the tropics,
much talk, talk, talk,
se habla español,
escucha,
entiendo más que lo hablo,
more talk, talk, talk,
sending money home,
they think the streets are paved with gold here,
life is a struggle here,
for family, always for family,
back home is Puerto Rico,
Puerto Rico is a paradise
but here
on the streets
during hot summer nights,
they set out card tables
on the dead grass stubs, and the street curbs, to play dominoes or cards,
like home,
talk, talk, talk
of paradise,
drink un cuba libre, or dos,
cuidad, con tres cuba libre, trae la fua,
here there is no parque, no plaza,
just the steady steam of the fumes and noise of traffic,
heading elsewhere
even the cab driver takes you around the block 3 times
if you don't notice
they are shooting up on the street corners
and the artist you met last week
who was making art with animal crackers
impressed into dog shit picked off the shit
and the gringos are buying it
but he is dead now
heading elsewhere
