Zeleya, Velez, Monet, and me, circa 1995

In the soft glow of blue neon, in an alley
lined with garbage bags and dumpsters,
Velez dangles a cigarette between his lips
and mumbles smooth at the camera.
when i take the photograph
you and Velez stand apart
so the Keroac sign can be seen.
Nobody smiles. All that cool.

I see you through the lens
hanging against the wall
like a painting through 13 doors.
Monet whispers in my ear
that I am a sly and nasty fox.
See how the light plays across the water
and the lillies float in and out
of it's embrace like children, you say.
Dip, I answer. Light bulb.

It is more than all that.
It is the genius that makes me cry.
Velez is as beautiful as waterlillies
and you are the light, impressionistic and brilliant.
Monet strolls off down Colombus,
a book of poetry under his arm
and a burrito dangling from the end of his finger.