listening to Diana Ross

Brazilian fish stew

so who knew

crossing the bridge could be so hard

a glass shard

cutting the grass

and shooting stars

dodging speeding taxis and unlicensed cars

up town 

blinding white

white walls

making all the important calls

arranging an interview

so who knew

pop art

pop tart

straight or narrow

hiding in the attic after 5 o'clock

walking the neon block

swimming in Central Park 

only when it's completely dark

wearing designer glasses

attending high society classes

sipping tea

with the ladies in their finest finery

playing the fool

in a massive public pool

black as more than simply a color

more than any other

a tough go

head to toe

so who knew

standing solo,

dressing in perfect Polo

wearing a white wig

eating a Spanish olive and a tasty fig

listening to Diana Ross

in a rain-lashed lightening storm

feeling wet and wild

elevated like a giddy God-child

on the easy side of the bridge.