the stinging

ok so im biased,
but maybe the reason so
many stories, the ones on broadway,
on the silver screens of hollywoodland,
on the pages of of the heart bound with string
take place in this beautiful, dirty place called new york.

it reminds me of a tangerine,
while working with cement, steel, rocks
and nails.
out in the cold, my hands cracked and bleeding,
stained and dirty
sitting with some guys i know,
i work with,
i sit at the bar with.
after eating our sandwichs, reclined on a
bucket upside down, boots crossed way out front, however
far away my legs are long.
another guy sits, indian style.
one paces nervously and the chatter is brief,
scores of games from the nite before.
talk of childish antics in the firehouse, at the bar,
in the sharehouse.
someone has a bag of tangerines.
'want one'?
'sure'?
it was the brightest thing on that job site.
orange, fresh, alive.
we were caked with mortar, saw dust, oil from sawing, drilling steel
I beams up in the sky.
backs stiffining up in the cold wind.
the tangerine was sweet, full of juice.
biting into the meat, the sweet juices run between my
fingers, htting the cracks.
the stinging.
the sting from that sweet flavour, amongst all of
the dirt, grime.
that was progress, the dirt, the grime, the broken backs
i think you
can figure what the tangerine was.