place

In the few hours after work,

We create small rituals

To schematize loss—

I am waiting 12 hours for your plane to land.

What I will say,

I do not know.

 The dirty ice at the end of the block shrinks

And smoke pours into the night

Like a hot metal—

It all goes somewhere.

The cracked concrete underfoot and dead

vines tracing their history

Up our chimney. It took tears

Going down cold into a mess of hair

And me realizing I hadn’t worn a warm

Enough jacket to get me to leave manny’s house--

Big chin and unfed muscle, only small hours of quiet

Before the 4 am shift

In a house full of drunk brothers

Watching bootleg dvds.

I knew he was inside, hiding

and wondering if this would turn out ok.

Me too.  

I went to the church where some 20 jews sang

A wordless melody. They asked me

About work and I made a graceful exit

But not before pulling up my hood, wandering towards

The stained glass and mouthing words of praise,

Rocking my body with the mourners kaddish

The way I learned so long ago, in rhythmic sobs

Not even I understand. I think,

It isn’t quite time to ask

Where this will all go.

Sid is in me laughing, everybody poops

When they die.

It is suddenly march 10^th and the bartenders

Are just getting their paychecks.

My phone rings with numbers I do not know.