It says
Jesus Loves New York
hugging a telephone pole.
It says
Mystic Moving Van
double-parked with the Chevy
of velvet dice bunnies.
And the pavement slicks rain
on graffiti-stroked arm pits
and thighs where stop lights slide.
The bum studies her like geography,
memorizing the valleys, the airbrushed
slopes, as he rattles his cup
in front of the City of Hope.
And it says
One Baby Saved
But the System Stinks—
Bras and girdles are blowing
across Broadway,
scallops, $9.50 a pound.
The midget in stars and stripes
on Amsterdam, his face flecked with colors
like lights behind the eyelids of the blind,
steps a quick cha cha cha,
kissing a parrot on the lips.
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