This is a city poem, again, about New York
called "Missing."
I never read it before, so I mean, you take your chances.
"Last seen near the closing newsstand outside the cigar
store, angled at that notorious corner
where some hasten past with eyes downcast or with
gaze clinging to nothing beyond the propped stacks
of sooty rags.
Settled on headwaters of dark rivers at the top of the steps
to the downtown subway.
While some dressed for the breaks in gleaming
black revolve their deliberate invitations,
some circle, menacing, and one, who
has been rung through a long life
into garments with no size, will be delving
whenever it is through the piled cage of garbage.
Searching for anything, all of them
backlit by store windows arrayed with faded umbrellas,
elderly luggage, dust-filled sunglasses, portraits
of foreign beauties from other eras wreathed in gold,
suggesting a good smoke.
This hand suddenly there thrust forth,
palm up out of what had seemed to be nowhere.
One more after so many.
But this surprisingly clean, and in that
light, looking as though it belonged
to someone familiar, almost recognizable and out of
place there.
The eyes in the bare youthful face
filled with terror, disbelief, tears.
Out of the mouth, nothing.
While the hand, trembling from its recent launching
among those shadows, kept floating away
from a figure of height somewhat less than average.
Age, perhaps 30 or 35.
Hair, blond, cropped short clean.
Eyes, no color at that hour, but no doubt, blue.
Cheeks, pink and clean.
Body, slight but not thin, wearing
a short-sleeved striped jersey.
Clean, his feet in white jogging shoes.
Beside him on a leash, his small part-Shepherd bitch.
Well-fed, brushed, answering to the name Bowama.
Looking up expecting kindness.
Standing on hind legs at the sound of her name
to look at his face, happy to be with him,
and sure that everything would be all right."