(Feb 2008, as of 2008-05-21 still somewhat in progress) Tired headlights cut through the midnight snow Down, down past where Manhattan's concrete canyons have washed out into SoHo's tired streets We stand back from the edge, clear of salt spray slush thrown up by maverick herds of huddled cabs and implacably long, black limousines looking for this restaurant or that, the next fare, or at the end of it all, just the easiest way home It takes a few breaths, but I brave the curb, arm outstretched, and a slush-soaked Medallion, glistening pale in the sodium lamplight lumbers to our call It's a common dance - that second half of the oft-imagined "Chinese fire drill": Scrambling around both sides, hopscotch puddles A mob of four, amid folding umbrellas and stepped-upon insistences of "No, you first" I hold back just a moment enough - inevitably, ringleader gets the front seat - and window-watch as hands, still disembodied slide a packet of mail, and yesterday's who-knows-what from what is now My Place The door, a crossing step, shift, slide, and I'm in, doorclosing and seatbelt-searching as I steel myself for the next part of the dance Ready? Now. Casually, oh so casually of glistening java shaved smooth Another breath.that watches me with questioning eyes And waits for my word "Paramount Hotel, please" My words come out casually, offhand, Like something that wouldn't need the silent practice I've put into it A furrowed brow and pursed lips - doubt? Crap. Line, please? I try again: "Uh, 46th - between 7th and 8th" (I think) But it's enough: the brow melts to a smile and we lurch away from the curb Underway, through cartwheeling points of light dazzled by sentry streetlamps, Underway, into the badlands of the north And now? Backseat chatter fades to static of big town small talk As I face the silent wager that any two strangers seated together must face A deep sigh, drinking in memory,A silent count of ten, or so, then I reach But he draws first, in a tumbled apology: English - such a tricky language, and so much to learn in only four years But before - where? And the words come, rolling like a slow song Sung from the cradle's memory and savored Africa. Yes, of course, but?like sweet milk Guinea. Guinea? And now the sadness flows too Of Before, and Then, and her and them I search my pockets and find nothingand who we all were before the undeniable Now found us riding through these frozen streets but borrowed tales to give in return, stories not my own to lend for the ride and held us all closeTo bank the heat of his words against the snow Of his life - a memory of delicate gold, spun fine and spangled with diamond light Now flung to these shores Welcomed (more than most!) and cast in (not out) In, into the heat Of a melting pot that defied the winter of these canyons No, more than that: a crucible To warm us, but to bind us, to crush us together, Tighter than we can breathe Until all that fine filigree shimmers and wilts Drawn in, to a drop of liquid gold that no more knows where it came from than the heavens know our name Gold, and silver, and everything else that we are and were His tales and mine, or those of my parents Forged into a river of heat and light swirling together, Until the the blue sky and lush green have burnt away, And all that is left pours out, Cooling to a muddied stream of that-was-a-long-time-ago, and ask-your-father memories Coursing, once again down these concrete canyons Under a midnight snow. |