DESPACITO

The box is longer than I am tall and half as heavy.
I circle it with arms, hug it to my right side like a giant baguette,
Let the door slam behind me.

Before reaching the third floor I’m sweating in my winter coat.
By the bottom step we rest, panting.
I wonder if it will find a good home.

An unattended ambulance blocks the driver from meeting me out front,
So I squeeze between parked cars and lumber down the street to meet
Him.

He rushes up, taking the box from my arms like I’m an old lady
Having an asthma attack.
Our facemasks billow a little as we smile our greetings.
I stand by the car with one eye on a flutter of sparrows
Dust bathing near a drain grate
While he tucks the instrument upright into the backseat
Like an oversized infant.

Buckled in, I admire his interior,
The shining black plastic,
Thoughtfully draped phone charger,
Poland Spring tucked into the seat pocket.

I admire his thin right arm draped across the passenger seat
As he looks past me driving backward to Broadway.
I get a good look at the way his diaphanous lashes sweep
His forceful black brows,
At his indulgent curls,
His showy gold watch.

I admire his cinnamon skin,
The deferential volume of Despacito playing on the radio,
His mindful blinkering between lanes.

If I’d had that baby in 2003, I’d have a child
Nearly his age.
Afternoon light blinks in memoriam
Against the stinging blue Hudson.

I send my thanks to his parents
Into the November air ruffling through the cracked windows,
Wonder how they managed.

When he deposits me and my piano on the sidewalk
In front of the pawn shop,
I see he knows I’m sending it away
And hope he understands it’s only a question
Of endurance.

I send my wish to mingle with his mantle of Old Spice
That someone will love his sinewy nape,
His broad hands,
His keen, black eyes,

That he will find himself thunderstruck
Before an expanse of sea,
Or a couloir of red rock,
Or under a screen of leaves,
Or embosomed by fog,
At least once in his life,

That he will forgive me
As he drives away.