Posted on August 21, 2018 at 2:14 pm

Friday morning,
Early summer.
Mama’s still layin’ deep
Dead asleep
With the curtains drawn
And her head underneath the blanket.
Crack the front door.
Up the stairwell,
Past the stink of the frying
And the dying
’Til I hit the roof,
Pull my transistor out and crank it.
Friday morning – 7:30,
New York City, grand and dirty,
Creeping out of the shadows like a whore.
Look around – somewhere near,
In the ground I can hear
There’s a sound – something no one ever noticed
before.
Down there on the street someone’s playing
salsa.
Someone’s playing disco.
Someone’s making something burn.
Someone plugged in a guitar and is shooting
fi reworks,
And I say, “Melinda!
When’s it gonna be my turn?”
Friday midnight –
Try to fi nd me!
I’m the boy with his feet
On the street
Hunting down the sound
With his ears like an antenna.
Through the kitchens,
Past the bouncers,
Those cabróns with their shades
And the blades
Enjoying their latest shipment from Cartagena.
Couples shouting, couples swaying,
All the while the band is playing
Old shit any wedding band could play.
No one knows, no one cares,
But that kid by the stairs
Has a song inside him that will blow you all
away.
Down here on the street someone’s playing mambo
Someone’s playing be-bop
Like abuela’s old LP.
I can hear the sound of the Bronx exploding
And I say, “Melinda!
When they gonna notice me?”
Out there on the street, someone’s tagging
subways,
Someone’s jumping fences,
Someone’s cursing at the moon.
Meanwhile, some clown gets a million-dollar
contract,
And I said, “Melinda!
This story better change soon!”
Out there on the street, they’ve been shooting
cop cars,
They’ve been torching high schools –
There ain’t nothin’ that can grow!
All I got is a crazy fortune teller,
And I said, “Melinda!
Tell me where I gotta go!”