(’80 – ’81)


– This Holiday Inn poem
leans toward the second floor rear,
where the air conditioning plant
& the laundry room,
carry on a lively reverberation,,,

– No Rolling Stones or Manuel Orantes
staying here,
Connecticut’s sun
after the South Bronx’s pyres///

– At a nearby stream,
no muggers to civilize you…
the waters seem to say,
“Must rush! must rush! must rush!”

– I think of my long-time
Colombian friend, Andrés,
killed in his taxi by a robber,
a few weeks past,
and of the rabbi who said,
as he read the eulogy,
“I never met Andrés,
so I can’t say much about him.”


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