Pale pink garage, stucco bubbled paint

doors ajar, black cars, even beat tan ones,

 

ditched sailboat alongside, awaiting callers

to all airports. Inside counter with stained blotters,

 

distributor-cap pen holders just like the bookkeeping office

of my father, above the wholesale meat packer, beneath

 

the viaduct on 125th, seagulls curving under

and over the West Side Highway, me

 

pulling the lever of the old adding machine

playing with thick pencils on bills of lading

 

another mystery place behind odd doors.

What or who might be working the pins

 

under the gameboard to bring remarkable

Spanish women in close proximity with

 

coarse men wearing blood-smeared aprons

having unholy thoughts in hallways

 

dim with the sheen of lust and death?