Not Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood

Puerto Ricans arc like boomerangs:
I told you this neighborhood sucked,

your hips attracting priests,
whoever heard of Panavision

not showing the whole truth,
the table set with tectonic plates,

Styrofoam cups of an East Coast San Andreas,
not that I would argue with science

nor tell you and have you crying (too)
over spilt milk

like a kitty, hell, no,
I would not allow the green air to escape.

A delicate, fragile stone can not survive
a million years only to be tossed

by Mexican boys at rundown Brooklyn apartments.
And if Castro dies, will every Cuban go back? Get real!

Them Italians don’t even belong in Italy,
much less here, you hook up your bra

and spin the cups to the front.
I drink coffee through my silk throat.