Blurred as you clear the mouth
of the cannon, you’re Weegee’s idea
of a joke, zipped top to toe in your fireproof suit.
All I can see through the faceplate are your eyes,
but I know when you somersault from the net
and strip down to your spangled leotard
you’ll be as taut-breasted and narrow-hipped
as the runners in Central Park.
I want you
to do something for me: Just this once
ignore the drum roll, the gape-mouthed rubes
in the cheap seats, the tiresome insistence
of gravity,
and fly to me,
banking and soaring above the streets
of Alphabet City, where I used to score
smack from Chilly Willy on Ave. D.
When you get to the Hudson, gone the beaten
gold of the old masters in the late afternoon sun
I’ll be waiting.
I’ve fallen for so many
women on their way down, but none
traveling as fast as you, and in those first
few giddy weeks we were sure we could save
each other. Soon enough we were just
two tired swimmers caught in the same
riptide.
This time will be different.
Trust me. If you’re flying in fast and low
look for the house with the new roof,
the flagstone walk, the rose trellis.
I’ll be out back, wearing the bullseye.
—-
Previously published in Black Stars of Blood: The Weegee Poems (Main Street Street Rag, 2018)
Museum of Modern Art 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9
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