If I Could Have Been Eva 62

Somewhere way uptown
“Bird Lives.” Barefoot
and in love, two dart
through wet cement.
Pen pals will be 

spawned. Stenciled
broken promises, the Bronx
could have come crumbling 

down. But it’s held on
for the ride. When the last
of the writing on the wall 

rolled along those tracks,
I arrived ready
to be winded
by those step streets.
I didn’t know it 

would be the shape
shifting that would catch me
in the throat.

Staged and Charged Up (Day 2,669)

No photos ever of me
in Brooklyn. Some in Queens—
an Astoria fourplex with unfinished 

hardwood floors. Manhattan all over beginning
inside the helm of the Flat Iron.
The Bronx north of 232nd Street indoors 

and out. Even one on Staten Island before
dashing across the Verrazano Narrows 

Bridge. Where did they go? I know
they were taken
by the tiny broken locks 

in my soul.
But I can’t end
on that—I’ll be the one 

stealing, not having earned
the right to mention it—
the soul that is.