untitled (cityscape)
Brooklyn,
midday.
Graying greasers, bulging arms emblazoned
with the names of buxom beauties and portraits
of a mother or murdered cousin,
faded ink commemorating the
day they lost their names to the U.S. Army,
crosses and Virgin Marys sharing olive skin
with mermaids and burlesque angels,
oozing sexuality. A white ribbed
undershirt stretches across a sagging paunch,
a token of middle age,
as wiry gray chest hair winds its way
up toward a tiny crucifix suspended from a
thin gold chain
Boys who create life’s soundtrack, spitting
rhymes while initialing wet cement and
daydreaming of big-time record deals,
swagger grandly even as their jeans inch
down their asses, ear-swallowing headphones emitting
raw beats into their ears as feet encased
in rainbow Nike Airs glide over miles of
cement. Shades reflect a dark, convex world
in all-seeing, indifferent eyes. A dozen
rosaries around his neck swing
with every stride, each smooth wood or faux
crystal bead a singular prayer
SAMANTHA R. PELOQUIN is a student living in New York City.
