28th Street
for Michael Sorkin
Michael, I saw you crossing 28th street
your helmet under your arm as always–
the left arm, the right hanging at your belt
like a keyring, composing, in its inert state
chapter three of the Iliad.
The Wrath of Achilles, regular or footlong
with or without onions. Achilles
who spent more time eating than fighting
who destroyed footlongs
as though war were a dinner party.
Michael, you crossed 28th street, the Rhine
The Hellespont, the wine-dark city
where heroes are made to be broken like boytoys
and then reborn
in emergency rooms,
contagious wards, the ICU, the CCU
the infectious ward, the ward
which passeth understanding, Michael,
as you did.
