what

has been forgotten by him,

lost

in the youth of his old age?

how long has it been,

a chara, since you called yourself

a warrior,

knowing

with full pride

the power of whisper and startle

you stretch

(nonchalantly)

between your dusky skin

and fingers?

you have shown to me

the demise of a kindred,

the way your father (the gypsy)

always insisted it happened -

a gruesome fascination, isn't it?

leave me here with my rosary

and go find

all your legal dreams,

hovering uncertain and unfledged

between the jazz-stained

concrete of harlem,

and the just-filled jails

(speaking of salsa and cigars)

lining the undergrounds

of the damp,

decaying west side.