Standing tall in his purple chorister's robe. His sacral presence not diminished by the new white Nikes on his feet. Don't need windin, take em in de showerbat, everyting proof, got diamuns 'n such, right time all de time. I will always watch boats. She swings around, her three decks jammed to the rails.
Sideswipes bulkhead for contemptuous New York landing.
Pilings groan, crack like gunfire. Tourists down the gangplank thundering. Cameras, camcorders, and stupefied children slung from their shoulders. Lord, there is something so exhausted about the NY waterfront, as if the smell of the sea were oil, as if boats were buses, as if all heaven were a garage hung with girlie calendars, the months to come already leafed and fingered in black grease. But I went back to the peddler in the choir robe and said I liked the look.