Bronx & Broadway

We all want someone to hold whilst the music plays
but this is a delayed reaction to teenage hormones,

you're clutching to not-a-lot-of-nothings,
smart jeans and smart cologne, a stolen ring

from your step-father's collection tidied away,
deep, in a box under bed sheets in that drawer.

Your mum says the right one will come 'round
soon enough, but so far the results

of dressing differently have resulted in
women speaking like spray from under a van:

rainwater white noise and not a lot else;
though you're still searching, if not for you,

for your mother instead, elderly and re-married:
some else's burden, another husband to carry.

Carry out of the bottom of drunken wine glasses
and into clear meadows on weekly walks
where discussions take place, peace treaty
talks about holidays in the Mediterranean,

upon balcony ledges they'll embrace, learn
about fading stars, the history behind buildings

visit local bars to drink sober cocktails
conjured up in off-the-web smoothie makers

bought with the ambition to make a living
and help the community out.

If not now then when, your cock shouts
hiding beneath moneyed material

cut in sweat shops, washed in sweat heaps,
delivered by the sweaty mail man of the Bronx,

will women love me you'll say,
will women want a house with me, stay the night

under reclaimed, bought from thrift shop,
lights and kiss until mornings turn into weeks,

those weeks into new jobs
and before you know it, retirement plots

in allotments off Broadway?