Fordham Road

perched there, on the curb facing Alexander's,
as the clots of traffic streak past, shiny
hard shells, metallic, too bright swerve,
erratic, he is as still as a bird before
flight, dressed for the tropics in
summer whites, waiting to cross Fordham
Road, but, standing so he seems
angel-like, a clean-ness above the
smudged colors of the Concourse, that palette
of blood-crimsons, warm browns, tar-sticky black
riddled with glass, jewel-sparkling
---and see him take flight, unfurling
white wings to soar across the road, to
come to rest square on the top off the "A"
of Alexander's, cool whites still sharp and
clean, hat at a jaunty angle as he
smooths his wings down, surveying the
terrain, cement caverns, the grand
boulevard stretching too, the red-white-
and blue recruiter, the movie house and
synagogue, the Chinese restaurant with the
red and gold tasseled lanterns beckoning,
beckoning with their promise of foreign mysteries,
the house of the blind, too, and the house
of the poet close by the crumbling grandstand,
splintered benches, carnival colors splashed
here, there, deliberate thumbprints--he sees
all, you see, and, grabbing his hat, braces
his wings for the next big upsurge: the
voyage to heaven takes more than several
station stops and changes, and he, most
obviously, was wise to this