Pier 99

he contorts his body like a member of Jerome Robbins' company
one arm arching over his head and following the slope of his pointed toe up towards
the heavilny rubles of suvs racing off the island
the muscles in his stable leg do not quiver like like a woman after sex, like a man hearing of his mothers death.

the muscles mimic the pillars of the brooklyn bridge beside him
his stomach steals the spotlight from the woman painted alabaster and the three legged dog.
our applause lapping at his feet drowned out by the punk rock kids who moonlight as intrepid ticket hawkers. a drone of steel tounges and eyebrows.

i catch his eyes for a moment as he dips his head backward and lets his body flow with it. his fingers fondle the pavement and tease the crowd with this faux back bend.
before flipping his body upright, his tiny mocha forehead forrowed in concentration, it is the sun that makes him squint.

but i know he is measuring his cup of sky, the backwards glance assuring it is still his.


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