After Dante, after Robert Pinsky
Soon, the sun slipped into a grey quilt
above and the street began to vaporize:
skidding cars, passers-by, even the silt
beneath our bums fell asleep. We’d rise
and talk and talk and walk from road to road.
The night folding itself into our eyes.
We’d talk and walk. A church loomed: my friend, bold
like a child around a parent, led me
in. On the floor, we fed our dreams to cold
sweeping across the church. It was sunny
when we opened our eyes to a woman
in a white robe. Dangling in her left hand, key
to the car she drove us with to a can-
teen, where wraps of Eba and Ewedu soup,
seeds of joy dropping in our stomach. A can
of Coca-Cola in my left hand, I stooped
in respect with my right. My friend did
the same. The woman smiled, her head dropped,
as a mark of respect. Goodbye, we would bid.
She, agape, how hope-filled were these hopeless kids