These Here Treetops

Dip and cross, the water drop, the hotdog stands, the dove. My John the Baptist a yellow eyed ex con in Washington Square who asked me for a dollar, said he likes “mah style.” Rather, he likes my full pocket but I’d rather appreciate the beauty of his empty hand. I don’t curl up to concrete but I need these pennies. My piggy bank still suffers from an eating disorder, my pockets are perpetually full of holes. God blesses me, I’m told. I see my guilt in his rotting teeth, in the subtext of his sunken shoulders. He won’t come-for-carry-me-home. My hard lived grit, swing low, fingerprint, voice tambour is branded on big apple cattle, in tock tick diners with soggy avocado bread, the entire family tree of bucked stars, cousin loving, holding hands across the grid, a mapped hammock, holding baby. Let the bow break, go on, let it.