Splatters

Last summer I lost Rosamunda in Central Park. Kids shouting, “A cat in a red leash!” scared her away into the bushes. A week later I found her right there.
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A sidewalk in East Harlem. Six used shopping carts stuffed with more folded carts, wheels up. The repairman nods off in the spring sun waiting for customers.
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Boisterous boys sing along at a new free internet kiosk on 3^rd Avenue & East 110 Street corner. Progress makes its way uptown.
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Seventh floor. Cold February night. Horrid, insistent whining drills into my face. My cheek itches. Red bump. Mosquitoes!
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Saturday 7 a.m. elderly people lined up around the block at the Iglesia de la Santa Agonia food pantry. Some try to jump the line. Squabble. Neighbors, young tenants, call 911.
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A chopper rattles stationary above us. Clouds glide away, flocks of birds swarm by, people watch the sky. Who got killed? Next day the papers tell us: a sixteen-year-old.
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A squad of shrill dirt bikes on 2^nd Ave. Black ski masks. Later a chopper circles the sky. Unfazed teenage girls chat away on a bench by the playground.
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On the subway platform, by the garbage bin, a derelict man pees in a plastic water bottle. Upon exiting I point him to the MTA janitor. She bolts, yelling at him, brandishing her broom.
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Alas, by the subway ticket automat, a young man turns around towards the wall, unzips, and relieves himself. Am I to again “See something, say something” or rather write MTA to “Unlock Ur Toilets 4 People!”
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Against the gray wall of the Little Sisters’ Thrift Store unsung pink magnolia blossoms. My old Bucharest’s only magnolia tree was always featured on primetime TV news when in bloom.
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Scattering bird seeds from her bag, she briskly walks ahead, while talking to a friend. Eager pigeons descend along the sidewalk in her wake. She doesn’t turn around to witness the poetry she nurtures, so matter of fact.
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Laundry day. She walks four times by a shopping cart filled with pirated Salsa DVDs, dumped by the Mini Storage. Eventually she rolls it home.
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I want a tricycle to enjoy rides with my cat, Rosamunda, safeguarded in a basket. My son laughs I’ll be the wonder of the neighborhood, like the elderly man who makes his rounds on his tricycle decorated with a taxidermy mount of a rooster, red and gold tassels, paper roses, and a boom box blasting “Puerto Rico mi amor” anthems.
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He paces on the platform yellow edge. What if he trips over his metal pointed-toe shoes, falls on the tracks?! Or what if he picks a fight? His shoes are lethal weapons. So much for stop and frisk.
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Two stocky blue angels painted on glass protect the firemen at Engine 53&Ladder 43.
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In this 77 degree March day a black burka flutters out of the Aguilar Public Library, darkening the sidewalk. Dumbfound I stagger in the shade.
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One January day I met real camels ambling in the neighborhood’s traditional Three Kings Parade, plopping real camel pies.
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One summer evening I saw a candle-lit procession parading a Virgin Mary statue, a handful of believers singing dolorously. Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Feast.
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Often I say hello to a construction worker friend. He used to be a hopeful actor. A young father now. I catch myself thinking, “Life didn’t propel him into stardom. Oh, well, there is some silver-lining. I can see beauty walking about our neighborhood. Yet, he could measure up to any Denzel Washingtons.”
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A boy plays Mozart on his keyboard in Time Square subway stop. People shower money on him. As I pass by him I see he simultaneously plays a videogame on a tablet he put on top of his keyboard. Further on his father checks a wall subway map. I congratulate him for his multi-tasking son. He nods smiling. I don't think he speaks English.

New York
Spring, 2016