The Bronx

It was pure romance the two of them strolling down the avenue arms locked the projects facing each side of them stark boxes where they lived the Caribbean exchanged for the gray fearful streets

he worked like a demon his car working day and night on the big industrial roads that poured through the granite of the native soil a million cars and trucks to feed the city

in the morning he returned and fell into her on the couch touching her soul with his arms and his lips and then he left her pregnant and tired back on the highway back to the city

where he ranged circling the island rounding Wall Street and through the boroughs day and night to the airports and the hotels and the streets full of women that filled him

but he returned to her always as first his son and his daughter born in the Bronx overlooking the commuter trains and the racing traffic on the New England to the fireplaces in the suburbs and he worked like the devil all week all through the year to cover his medallion that he wanted free and clear

but then one night parked on the West Side in the dark breezy drive over the Hudson he bought a ticket that carried him over the horizon and out of sight to where his children will wonder when they are older if they can see his face hidden, far away on the other side of the river