a poet in the bronx

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That night he was searching for a poem he left his stunning laptop humming on the kitchen table and ran out to the wide sidewalks of Webster Avenue  relatives sat on their stoop box seats mixing cheers and bonchicheras corona beers sitting on the side of their leg With arms thrown to the sky I celebrate a touchdown  A poet must view at the whole picture One man’s victory is stalked by another man’s loss The voice inside my head began to whisper: Damn… One of them young cats might grow to be a poet in the bronx Or the little brother who caught the game-winning touchdown might have to sleep in the street one day  That night he went searching for a poem he found two colors of love A teenage couple embrace right by the bus-stop I read his lips as they whisper a sweet something into her smile and that voice that never goes for a walk comes to visit again: I hope their dreams come true  In one ear and it stood as the poet turned the corner He bumped into an ancient argument Two fallen angels with scratchy throats pull and push each other not enough for both of them to get high tonight Use to be he would serenade her under a clear moonlight and that voice meets him in front of the liquor store: there's no room for kissin’ and huggin’ In the middle of the night When luck is hard to find  The poet came back to his kitchen table with the last voice that sounded like the blues so he turned the electric hum into this poem: Show me a woman who is strung out on love I want to support her habit

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