The Rites of Spring


The Rites of Spring


"Johnny!"

Strolling through
an evening of
hazy lights and
glossy shadows

it feeling good
just to walk again
for no reason

the lamb of late March
leading my thoughts
into quiet pastures

"Cherisse!"

I nearly
pass right by her
working a corner
in front of an
empty flower stand

"So how you doin' Mister Poetry Man?"

Foolish of me
that's how folks
get mugged

We shuffle
around each other
to the rhythms
of our surprise

"All right I guess
I was kind of sick
all last winter
but you're looking
pretty good yourself"

She seems well fed

her zebra-striped
bodysuit following
the curves of woman
instead of elder child

her chinchilla stole
no longer an imitation

I don't see any bruises

"Well you know what a lot has changed for me since last year"

A squad car rolls by
slows down
continues on

"Is that what you're
doing this far uptown?"

"You see I had a little trouble down in Chelsea when this bitch
Rebecca tried to make a move on my Jimbo and I wouldn't let her
so she starts screaming real crazy like for the cops to come and
bust me on account of my baby being you know gone and I try to
shut her up and he just stands there with his mouth open like
some fucking junkie so then she comes at me and her purse spills
out on the sidewalk and I see a vial of acid and she jumps me so
I throw it in her face and Jimbo and I start running then he takes
off for Jersey so I had to split the neighborhood and I'm living
uptown and I'm an independent businesswoman now and see this
hotel I rent that room above us by the night but I charge my
customers by the hour and if they try and stiff me I stiff them
so now I eat well and got good clothes and I'm doing all right"

I always wondered
how she did that
without breathing

"Well you should
be safe up here"

New York is like that
peasant villages
separated by moats
of asphalt and accent

"So did you use some of that witchcraft stuff to find me?"

Probably a better
description of my magic
than I've ever read
in all hoary grimoires

"Just following
the tip of my nose
I never know where
it will lead me"

We both choose
not to bring up
the old argument
over her chosen
profession

letting it lurk in
someone else's doorway
turn its own tricks

but then it was
always me anyway

"Say you ever gonna put me in one of them poems you write?"

Awkwardly I lift my
hand to her shoulder
and from somewhere
in my back pocket
pull out a grin

"OK Cherisse
tell you what
you make me
a famous writer
and I'll make you
a famous writee"

She leans forward
from the waist
wrapping her bony
arms around mine
patting her hands
quickly over my
shoulderblades

"You got a deal Johnny"

A couple of dried roses
lay in one of the bins

I pull one out
weave the dying scent
across her lips
her eyes on mine

I notice for
the first time
their blue mist

"Well I have to
get going now lady
so you just take
care of yourself"

I drop the blossom
into the bin
turn away and continue
down the street

"You just keep writing them poems!"

I can hear Cherisse singing
to passing automobiles
cursing their tailpipes
heels clicking on the curb

as I walk south through
the West Sixties past grand
old brownstone apartments
occupied by genteel matrons
from the Age of Broadway
over to the manicured lawns
in Central Park where one
civilization plays by day
and another works by night then
south again into Midtown where
the Museum of Modern Art and
the galleries that surround it
like foppish apprentices slumber
until awakened by sunrise and
the jingle of shop keys then
past the grey currencies of
the Empire State Building and
Macy's and the New York Public
Library with its stone-hearted
lions until the grand avenues
follow the smeared windows of
sweatshops and the scrubbed
windows of artist's lofts and
still I can hear I can hear her
I can hear nothing at all

           * * *

    There are no whores
    with hearts of gold

    they have sold them
    all to men of lead  
             
    for nights of wine
    and withered roses
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