During the pandemic I channel surfed
into where they still made money
running Law & Order twelve hours a day,
sponsored by “free” packets of “miracle” spring water.
I remember right away a repeat episode from 1991
about a young mother killing her child “out of love,”
as if burning the body of an eight-month–old baby
in a basement furnace would guarantee life eternal
in a better place than this sewer of a city.
Urban complaint was her main defense
reciting a familiar list in the witness box:
drug gang shootings, race riots, the rape of a friend,
and a blind sheik’s practice run at bringing down
the Twin Towers a decade before they actually fell.
The same year as the burnt baby, in the city I loved
my wife and I were eating alone in a mid-town restaurant when
a familiar baritone at the next table turned my head around.
It was Jerry Orbach and his wife sitting with another couple
after a night on the town. Take my word,
El Gallo in life sounded the same as he does on the tube,
New York everywhere in his mouth.
I’m half way up, hoping to say “Hi” and get an autograph
when the wife puts an arm on me, saying I’m not rude enough
to stare so hard at Detective Briscoe or bother him walking over.
My small balloon of energy instantly pops
and ever since his death, I’ve tried not to remember
one more wasted moment when I caved on desire.
