BY PUMA PERL
One week later, dog walkers steer their packs
around baby strollers and pavement cracks.
Seven days flew by unless you were the one
behind shattered glass, watching the movie
at the Chelsea Cinema, making a U-turn
on twenty-third, calling hospitals looking for your
loved one, remembering the posters on brick
walls, in Union Square, the photos. Missing.
Have you seen her? Have you seen him?
When you are locked in fear, time moves slowly,
recall explodes as you try to sleep or cook, shut
your eyes and you are right back in the car,
the club, the building, the marathon, the tower.
Lives ending like poems, in the middle.
We recap. A bumbling terrorist. Asleep
in a doorway. A pressure cooker. A suitcase.
Five family members. A suspicious father.
A wife in Pakistan. A mother in Turkey.
A clown candidate pointing his finger.
See! I told you so!, he crows. I was right!
The Three-Card Monte game has returned
in near-human form. There are no winners.
Don’t be manipulated, we are told.
Do not live in fear, do not give in.
We’re New Yorkers, we’re a tribe,
we’re resilient, can’t keep us down.
But still…
Eric overhears a young black man
tell his friend, I’m late for work, but
I’m afraid to run for the bus.
Hassan worries about his mother,
riding the subway alone, head down.
She’s never been attacked.
But still…
Beth sees a backpack in the corner
of a club. She and her friend joke
about seeing something, saying
something, surely it’s harmless.
Their eyes keep returning to it.
But still…
In the late ’80s, Rick and I
were always out, on the run, uptown
and down. Footloose and fancy free,
we called ourselves.
Footloose and fancy free.
Any trouble we got into
was of our own making.
I needed to lose a lot of teeth
and shoot a lot of dope
before the police began
to notice me, before
my neighbors wanted me gone.
All Jamal needs is a prayer rug.
All Juanito needs is a roll in his r’s
and some Salsa in his steps.
All Teresa needs to do is linger
too long on the corner.
All Margeaux needs is five
inch heels and an Adam’s apple.
What about you?
What do you need?
All our lives matter, yes.
To God or Allah or Buddha,
depending on your beliefs.
Or to the air or clouds or ocean,
We are particles of the universe.
But here on earth, history
and eyes, ear and sound
tell a different story.
Still.
The week flew by, routines
returned, stores opened,
free coffee for the first
responders, small
business crawls.
We made music,
we made art.
As usual, except for some.
Still.
Bring it close, bring it home,
back to the beginning,
where we live, where we love.
Last year, Yom Kippur
approaching, Ali, the counterman
at my favorite bodega, held my
hand, wished me an easy fast,
You and me, he said, smiling,
we’re the same. No difference.
The religious men of my heritage
don’t touch my hand, but they invite
my son to hold the Torah, even
though he was never Bar Mitzvahed.
They dance in the Stanton Street Synagogue.
Where is home?
Ali is gone. Three kids cracked his head
open when he caught them stealing beer.
After the hospital stay, he moved to the Bronx.
How do we get home?
We start where we stand.
looking into eyes instead of away,
asking how instead of why.
I remember Ali’s eyes that day
he held my hand.
No different, he said. You and me.
We are the same.
Bringing it home.
