WEBVTT

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This is a city poem,
again, about New York

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called "Missing."

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I never read it before, so I
mean, you take your chances.

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"Last seen near the closing
newsstand outside the cigar

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store, angled at
that notorious corner

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where some hasten past
with eyes downcast or with

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gaze clinging to nothing
beyond the propped stacks

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of sooty rags.

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Settled on headwaters of dark
rivers at the top of the steps

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to the downtown subway.

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While some dressed for
the breaks in gleaming

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black revolve their
deliberate invitations,

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some circle,
menacing, and one, who

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has been rung
through a long life

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into garments with no
size, will be delving

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whenever it is through
the piled cage of garbage.

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Searching for
anything, all of them

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backlit by store windows
arrayed with faded umbrellas,

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elderly luggage, dust-filled
sunglasses, portraits

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of foreign beauties from
other eras wreathed in gold,

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suggesting a good smoke.

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This hand suddenly
there thrust forth,

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palm up out of what had
seemed to be nowhere.

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One more after so many.

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But this surprisingly
clean, and in that

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light, looking as
though it belonged

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to someone familiar, almost
recognizable and out of

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place there.

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The eyes in the
bare youthful face

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filled with terror,
disbelief, tears.

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Out of the mouth, nothing.

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While the hand, trembling
from its recent launching

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among those shadows,
kept floating away

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from a figure of height
somewhat less than average.

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Age, perhaps 30 or 35.

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Hair, blond,
cropped short clean.

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Eyes, no color at that
hour, but no doubt, blue.

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Cheeks, pink and clean.

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Body, slight but
not thin, wearing

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a short-sleeved striped jersey.

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Clean, his feet in
white jogging shoes.

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Beside him on a leash, his
small part-Shepherd bitch.

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Well-fed, brushed, answering
to the name Bowama.

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Looking up expecting kindness.

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Standing on hind legs
at the sound of her name

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to look at his face,
happy to be with him,

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and sure that everything
would be all right."

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