A Belmont Courtship

A Belmont Courtship

After the eighth, before the last race
just outside the LIRR gate, she sits
waiting on suitcase chair
back straight Catholic school proper.
Maybe our lady of Guadeloupe.
Her dress is quaint and new,
red poppies on summer white cotton.
Her low heel shoes shine with care.
They are not the five inch spikes
the putas, or will be putas someday,
or PR high school girls seductively wear.
She says she is waiting for Jose’
who will meet her when he finishes riding.
But, there is no Jose’ in the program today.
Just another sad story.

WAIT—this is not the end.
Pathos is wrong. My mind says:
You! Girl! Get Up!
Go back to Spanish Harlem,
or Brooklyn, or Hempstead.
Jose’ is not coming.
No Jose’ will ever come.
Go home and raise your baby,
if you expecting one.
If not, diga,
Gracias a Dios.
And, learn from this lesson.

But I stay quiet,
Sometimes it is such a shame
that we are taught
to mind our own business.