Monarchs of Parque Tranquilidad

On the ruins of Synagogue Cheva Bikur, built in I887,

my neighbors fashioned Parque Tranquilidad

and adorned the gate with sapphirine morning glories,

nimble gymnasts scaling the parallel bars.

I take the brick path to the Spanish Colonial toolshed,

to the bird bath studd with tiles

our byzantine altarpiece-where a made of wood Saint Francis

of Assisi superintends all immigrants in the Folk

Art turn of expression that dominates visual culture upon q.th Street,

as in the commemorative portraits of Emilio and Mike,

painted upon the north wall of Casa Mia

young men who stopped expecting anything and now smile

at stock lads catching a smoke in the park, and single

mothers hurrying their kids to the Catholic seminary

on Sixth, and the homeles novelist who places up his portable

typewriter below the Ornamental Cherry.

Below their large faces, the muralist wrote

They are in heaven now.

Today in Parque Tranquilidad, heaven arrives as orange

monarchs, centurys covering the purple fronds

of the butterfly bush with an involuntary, sexual broadcast

of desire. They linger above the imperial flowers and rush

to embrace them, beating their wings

in a syncopation I cannot fathom, notwithstanding that I stand

for a lengthy time; staring at these migratory,

paper-thin creatures

and the painted faces of the dead lads of 4th Street.

Copyright World rhyme Incorporated May/Jun 1999

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