To Brooklyn Bridge

That stupid Puerto Rican who’s jumping
to his silly death
followed all the way down by seagulls.

Stunted generations of an Italian punk
who raped a girl under the bridge
and an old Goodyear tire won’t testify.

Fifty year old tugboat captain
screwing his stepdaughter on the East River
while his wife sleeps ashore in paradise.

The news-helicopter reporter
drinks after work to the thighs
of the weather girl he’d like to ravish.

The maps that the weather itself ignores
riveted all the over the spans
which connect nothing to nothing

as an Arab taxi driver
submerges his heritage, but effortlessly
keeps his wife under his thumb.

So what? At this point, New York is so unclean,
the metal so brittle that the mailman
delivers saliva on little cat feet.

And in an ethnic neighborhood
God squirms in the pizza
a nasty Russian puts in his mouth.

Finally, the Puerto Rican splashes
into the oily, putrid water
and the seagulls head back up grinning like the sun.