SOMEDAY ON SEVENTH AVENUE
errol miller
A man will peer out
from behind his heavy iron door
“very well, my son”, he shall say
his sad eyes flowing and fusing with mine
in that transverse native air of New York City
in that poignant manuscript written by hand
I am a child of the universe again
measuring up but aching still
so many narrow streets in the maze of Paradise
so many rude keepers of the light and way
my pockets filled with perishable religions
and notes to myself, sometime swerving
through Oxford’s stucco square I thought I saw
an aviator from the 30’s gliding by
an Old World lady sipping whey
I could not hope for hope, of course
or in all honesty enter heaven
stripped to loincloth and a slice of cheese
I simply stopped to stare, somehow
in the voice of a father perhaps the child
has heard direction, fainting into winter’s chill
and destined to write blank verse for astronomy
I felt beautiful and confused, like deity
like it was twilight in Maryland
people enjoying supper by candlelight
and I simply stumbled, bleeding
with prized possessions
tired and sleepy and inventing
a newer lie to set
my heart pounding again.