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Friday, August 24

Stoop-Sitting

The summer is made for stoop-sitting

and since it’s the last week before school starts,

Harlem is opening its eyes to September.

I scope out this block I’ve always called home.

Watch the old church ladies, chancletas flapping

against the pavement, their mouths letting loose a train

of island Spanish as they spread he said, she said.

Peep Papote from down the block

as he opens the fire hydrant

so the little kids have a sprinkler to run through.

Listen to honking cabs with bachata blaring

from their open windows

compete with basketballs echoing from the Little Park.

Laugh at the viejos—my father not included—

finishing their dominoes tournament with hard slaps

and yells of “Capicu!”

Shake my head as even the drug dealers posted up

near the building smile more in the summer, their hard scowls

softening into glue-eyed stares in the direction

of the girls in summer dresses and short shorts:

“Ayo, Xiomara, you need to start wearing dresses like that!”

“Shit, you’d be wifed up before going back to school.”

“Especially knowing you church girls are all freaks.”

But I ignore their taunts, enjoy this last bit of freedom,

and wait for the long shadows to tell me

when Mami is almost home from work,

when it’s time to sneak upstairs.