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Sunflowers in the yard of our twelve-story,
post-war subsidy reach over the old
shrubbery. A man and his boy planted
bulbs—it seems days before. Single father—
half-smile, -grimace, a well-intentioned Stetson—
evokes: virility, steadfast libertine—
Indiana Jones—single. Stupid hat.
No man should affect one. His dog-sized boy
digs ruts in the landfill. Sixty wretched
tenements (rag-picker's alley) leveled
for our cooperative. The Orthodox
cop, always a straight black tie with a gold
clip, jangles his keys in the elevator,
murmurs the planter is a fresh widow,
garnered permission to garden. Orthodox
cop is fiction—a little General,
beard obsessively trim, pants creased. Spends nights
fussing over his white sedan with a red
siren on the dash. His doughy teenage
son terrified of our toothless mutt. Phobic.
Runs away at fifty yards or frozen,
screams in a high-pitch. The Dog and I tethered
by six-feet of candy-apple nylon.
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