Going Through the Bronx on a Sunday Morning
The old neighborhood, Gates Place,
Mosholu Parkway, Gun Hill Road,
Jerome Avenue, is a rambling ode
to urban dysfunction. A sad pimp
sitting in a broken-down Cady.
The park where my grandfather played
pinochle passes by like a spike in the arm,
an itch and a nod, a day in the life gone
A Dali moon in a cardboard box
sleeps beside a plaid, rusted bench.
Those that still walk the streets
turn up a collar and draw invisible
silhouettes on a wounded, ironweed
I was born and raised in the Bronx and I am a retired chiropractor. My work has appeared in numerous publications including Blueline, Mudfish, Main Street Rag, Concho River Review, Nerve Cowboy. The Antigonish Review, and The Dalhousie Review. I have placed seven times in the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Contest and my chapbook, Manhattan Cream, was published by MuscleHead Press.