Romeo
on Vine Street
The
wolfdog whistle
of
some light-skinned boy
(call
him Romeo)
skip-tripping
up Vine
on
the heels of some
darker-skinned
girl
(not
Juliet)
opens
my eyes
and
pulls me from this
dream
I have sometimes
about
a beach with palms
that
wave away
a
chrome medallion sun
The
sun dreams too, I'm sure
dreams
a man
awake
in these cool hours
a
man following the progress of
(call
him Romeo)
onto
Liberty, moving east
Romeo
saying:
"Hey,
baby, slow down!
Dontcha
wanna talk at least...?"
And
her smiling now, grinning
but
she won't turn or cease
and
cannot know
the
sun dreams her too
the
way it dreams me and Romeo
as
it scrapes the painted sky, asleep
Tomorrow
is manana es tomorrow
says
the sun
and
sometimes when the Greyhound station is lean
I
ride a burro along my golden beach
smaller
still, beyond its reach
Give
it up, Romeo, I say
and
pull sharp away, accelerate
Five
minutes and I'm uptown
where
the girls are easier
and
money grows on trees
