city boy

He walks like a New Yorker in Boston,

all gangle and skyscraper limbs

looking at the tops of brownstones

and wondering how he’ll ever belong

in such a small place.

Tin-can man with ears

for jazz and rock-n-roll,

a sucker for a good alto

loves women’s voices

that sound as pure and deep as scotch.

He does not have the patience of G-d,

but I do know how to throw a ball,

knead bread,

drive,

lean with a motorcycle on the curves.

House man, who has crawled

through cinderblock bowels

to find the broken hearts

of every place he’s lived,

mended them with

plaster and muttered curses.

He does not have the patience of G-d,

but his woodwork gleams like singing bowls.

I look up to him so much

sometimes, I forget the color

of his shoes.

Bottle-neck man,

I knew his beer by age six,

the way I know his city now.

He walks like everywhere

is New York, like his feet

are made of subway stops

and apple trees,

leaving a trail of gleam and grime

that tastes like skyscraper silver

through the narrow streets of Boston.

He’s lost here.

Dad, when you lose yourself, do what I do:

just look up

you’ll be there