Barre of light, security grill,
golden square on the floor.
The buses on South Chapel Road shake the
windows and the windows and the door.
The insane guy always cuts his nails,
we always talk the weather.
Satellite dishes all point the same way like they are praying.
Jamaica.
The women pull up
outside the shop,
the men stroll out getting.
I want my son to know his dad
was nothing like them.
And all I have
is here.
The chatter of the lorikeets as they nestle in the palms.
Traffic turns conversation into waving,
into waving arms.
The evening sun,
the ghostly gun,
the color-bound fence.
The beauty is so sudden that it feels like violence.
And all I have
is here.
