One-Eyed Reilly

and here he was again, One-Eyed Reilly,
as sure as Sunday, turning up like that
lucky penny she tucked into her
shoe on a Saturday

and herself, ruining the fine crease
of his trousers, looking for one of the
six keys to the city he keeps
safe in his pockets

late lunches of pasta e fagioli, the
stories of his sainted mother, the
thumbprint bruises on her upper arm, count
those jewels, emerald, ruby, amythyst
purpling, the man who does not know
his strength....

he plants a seed to sprout in
her ear, then, triple e spaugs dodging
the crevasses on Grand Street,
is on his way again, saving his one
and only world, painting out a

new signage, and, leaving the
last unsaid, she bids him her
fond farewell