For J.D.
"Tempus fugit." Sister frowned,
then banned us to the bleacher seats
beneath the up-swung basket-boards
where part time dads with sons belonged)
and as I towed you stumbling through
the rows of moms and aunts and nuns,
a row of prepubescent Cuban girls
was dancing round in awkward pairs
pretending they were Easter flowers
in rows of gauzy sequined flounce,
an Upper-West-Side-Day-Glo crush
of pink and mauve and lime pastels
that popped up then fell down again
as they loped, lost, through their ballet.
Like us, I thought. Pretending fun.
On days like this. Appointed ones.
And when the curtain finally fell,
and all the costumed children flew
like bright pastillas round the room,
their mothers filled the gloomy air
with anxious pleas and names and prayers:
a rosary of salted sweets
to guide their precious ninas thru
the darkening confusion there.
And then a tide of faces swayed
like pale, untended flowers outside,
and door by door the subway slowed
and spawned a vague, unsteady white