Melting Pot

(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

to look up into the warm round face

of glistening java shaved smooth

that watches me with questioning eyes

And waits for my word

Another breath.

"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 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?

A deep sigh, drinking in memory,

And the words come, rolling like a slow song

Sung from the cradle's memory and savored

like sweet milk

Africa. Yes, of course, but?

Guinea.

Guinea?

And now the sadness flows too

Of Before, and Then, and her and them

and who we all were

before the undeniable Now

found us riding through these frozen streets

I search my pockets and find nothing

but borrowed tales to give in return,

stories not my own to lend for the ride

To 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

and held us all close

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.