Alphabet City

Blue workshirts
crusted in salt-rings,
sweat born out,
of foundry heat,
smelters blaze,
soups of molten copper,
where a trip sends lava
flowing down ramps
to melt men’s ankles,
makes castings of souls
who labor
for low wage,
no esteem.

Suiciders atop vats
swan dive into
ore pools,
vanish like vapors.
Here, then
simply gone.
All they were,
now steam.

On the subway home,
I doze to the sports page,
dream of powerful
drives to center,
propelled by torque,
strong hips, action,
sympathetic knees, breaking wrists,
the geometry of grace,
the boys of summer
kiss the cheeks of autumn ladies.

Sweet grass,
new, mown.
City sparrows
on ginkgo trees
in the high branches aside the el,
lilt fossil
melodies,
call to me
through open train doors
to wake me
at some station after mine.

I smell the heavy layer of my own sweat
there on my clothes,
the heat of…

I remember when Zimmerman passed you
on the way up to apartment 4D.
“Man, a hard rain’s a-gonna fall,” he said,
“I ain’t heard nobody sing it like you.”

We felt back then like we were almost gone,
like motherless children, long ways from home.
I’m crying now, Rich, I miss you so much.
Freedom’s another word for all to lose.

Pizza on the street, outside the Fillmore,
blowing smoke at the Why Not?, the Fat Cat,
retuning my axe, every time you played,
in open E, open D, what the fuh! 🙂

’cause you had those funky fingers, my friend.

We sent boys away, like Handsome Johnny,
and back in the day at Max Yasgur’s place,
you brought it home Richie, minstrel from Gault.
You kicked it off, that long ago new age.

Songbirds in Bedford-Stuy mourn your passing.
With you gone, there’s one less Gospel Singer,