To get the mean reds in Bryant park
while the lawn drips with sane bystanders
is a dangerous development.
Now I don’t mean just mad, but
red dripping angry.
And I don’t mean the homeless jittery
fellows who feel what you feel,
I mean the place is infested by tourists
with itchy trigger fingers.
Did Capote ever breathe?
Here I am, sitting on the steps
all hot air and denim.
A piano claps under the gazebo,
café goers keep score, teeth on teeth,
laughing all the way on a day
that could be the very last.
My phone’s screen mutters,
“Momma Dukes: Watch out for backpcks and
pckages, Re— 9/11”, and I wonder,
when did packages become something to fear?
Now I’ve got the mean reds right now, Capote,
but if I don’t have a white Christmas, brother,
I’m gunning for you.