After Ron Padgett’s Amsterdam
The sky has been paved over
by no boats in the Hackensack.
In the gutters of River Road
watery asphalt crumbles
because it is New Jersey and
very unwell. Even the street
light thinks filth, with
the sadness of her body
her electric mind every minute
and Ken Zisa inside
the house watching his Yankees
inning after inning. Outside
the window, a man says something
and a girl laughs, “No, Milagros,
eso no es un gusano real.”
Everything fizzles.