HOLY SHIT AND AIN'T DEAD YET!
Here, hold my hand and handle my load;
the chickens might be home to roost.
My carving knife is gone now, and all
I hear is noise. Alone, in this misery,
again. Along the streets, behind me, the
brick projects loomed with ten thousand
Puerto Rican children waiting. Now they
too are all grown. And not a moment
too soon; for all the world has changed
and I shall be no longer among them.
I pray the day that I shall stay alone
along the that winding way : blue sky,
high heavens, and nothing left to say.
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