the night we met
we walked cross-town
(after conversation & cocktails),
in the desperate heat of july,
to Union Square

before getting the Q
to Coney Island
you pulled me around
the U bend of the park
to a garden
i never knew was there
untended tall grass, growing
you said, a bronze sculpture
of Gandhi, walking stick and tunic
shrouded in grass, taller than
he was. no one
notices him, you say they remember
dsw or the virgin
megastore but not Gandhi in the park
walking thru tall grass
and time

to our left, sitting
at the tables men play chess,
a mad-hatted big nosed, jewish
George Clinton squeals into night,
(a high pitched nasal that reminds us
stereotypes sometimes root in truth)
                                            when was he a leeee-da
incessant until I answer, 
                                            1947

                                            Close 
                                            How did he die

                                            He was shot

he nods and says Golda Meyer
was a very great man. The bald
Bootsy in neon biker shorts
next to him, laughs They argue
about what’s so funny

we walk away from this jam
session of mad men
to the kiosk of Q Lights
and people, blur a subway
carousel, a faceless audience
of dozens, stir only

our stare is sturdy

your face a portrait
framed and perfect,
the corners of your mouth
raise to the moon-
we are holding hands 
                                            i ask

why’s your uncle
in the park so late

you,
a boxer receiving
jabs like a kiss,
counter cross-hook,
whisper

he’s looking for YOUR daddy

kevin coval is the author of slingshots (a hip-hop poetica) (em press, 2005), whose work recently appeared in I Speak of The City: New York City Poems (Columbia University Press, 2007). as part of his '08 political platform he hopes to build a commuter train between the upper west side and chicago's ukranian village.

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