Traffic Island; Corolla Island
Traffic Island
Traffic island on 69th and Myrtle
in Ridgewood, the bricks edge to edge
evenly in perfect rectangles
except the borders where the curb
shores them in irregularly,
cut short or slanted around the feet
of the bus benches, mailbox, flower pot.
Their grid is spiral-plotted
by the feet of a fervent believer.
A spell of twirling, stepping left or right
with fingers and wrists torquing
an invisible sphere, twirling again,
the olive-drab thawb ruffling out
like an Elizabethan collar,
the taqiyah tilted back
with the back of the head,
eyes heavenward.
And then I see he means to say
that I’m not welcome. Says I’m a homo.
Because I believe we’re truly brothers
I sit silent on the bench to taunt him.
Next to the fish market,
the turkeys are crammed in
in white and dirty white
in a dirty grey garage
with metal shelving cages.
They all crane with nervous gobbles
toward the sunlight,
their white heads
baldish and priestly.
We have…
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