Hot One

Coffee is not good for Spaz,
but I share mine anyway.
his tongue long and blue
laps down into the cardboard cup
down on the concrete,
and he drains it,
spilling not one drop.
He waits for me to pour him more.
I do,
and when he is through
a spot of the sun
breaks past
the baggy buttonwood trees
between us and the projects
and he begins to pant.
It's going to be a hot one
again today.

We are right in the flight path.
White, red and blue tail-sections
of the prop planes
and the commuter jets
on their diagonal way
to cities within five hundred miles
of LaGuardia,
fly right over the projects-
right over where I sit-
on the curb,
in the last of the morning shade,
retreating from
the gravel
and broken asphalt drive,
behind Randall and Castle Hill...
it promises to be a hot one
again today.

Spaz and I retreat
from the expanding
seven a.m. sun.
Into the office
painted
not white or gray or green
but some disturbing color
in between.
Strangely agitating
and morbidly routine.
Piles of papers
garbage pails of dog food
computer screens
and dust bunny's
bits of hardware
and sheets of glass
a coffee maker
and an adopted family of dish-ware,
in the pantry
unwashed
and waiting...
but the portable A/C
is running
and the ancient stereo
is humming.
It is cooler here
than anywhere
else
on this block
in the Bronx.
it promises to be
another hot one today.

The phone rings
and the other end
unswervingly demands.
try and try,
as best I can,
there is no purchase
no a-mens
sufficient.
and I find myself believing
it is me.
it is my fault
I have gotten too old
for this grind-
If not for Spaz
and a laugh
now and then
I would never come to
the Bronx again.
Certainly not
for the weekly pay.
Certainly not
during a finite summer's day,
and it appears
it's going to be
another hot one today.