For Love of a Neighborhood
By a rowhouse, on a stoop, on my stair,
I watched her through our hydrant’s copper spray,
her beauty swallowing a chest of air.
I saw no bonnets; she had no bouquets.
She set those clichéd games down yesterday.
If she didn’t, these curbs would have wilted.
It’s still funny to think of it today.
She had a spanner: duct-tape hilted.
Her feminine muscle pulsed down her wrench.
Crush of first water, tears struck her hot thigh.
An entire neighborhood dressed in drench.
If I had the spanner, would I have tried?
At times we’re the man; at times we’re a mouse
on my stair, on a stoop, by rowhouse.
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