Tuesdays In New Jersey

Halloween, and I watch my son, intrepid Superman,

trip over his cape, walking around Union City with his class

of four year olds. They hang tightly to a long white rope.

I am a fearful man as it is lately, no hero, afraid

of black cats and masked men, over worried

about cars suddenly careening out of control,

of Krypton falling from the black heavens.

This park, a patchy place of green and cement,

provides cold comfort: it is deserted.

I need a cigar. Across the street

from Martin’s school, a funeral home. Today,

people will bury Jose Hernandez, aged twelve,

ailments, desires, and ending unknown to me. His mother

wears brown, carried aloft by a throng of family

and do-gooders. Our eyes meet, and she is ashamed

of her grief. I want to help carry the casket

to the hearse, but it is small, grey, shiny

in the unusual searing sun and heat.

The casket is not five feet long. This cigar

tastes like burning black tires after

skidding over a vast sandy stretch.

Inside for lunch I help serve pizzas

and Oreos. My son will probably turn out gay—

he likes show tunes and wipes the crumbs

off the dirty mouths

of the other boys. This is all fine with me.

I am in a state of shock anyways, no longer

bound by laws of narration or newspapers. In the corner

a timid Dominican breastfeeds her four-month son.

They are more beautiful than Abraham’s wrists.

I stare, unafraid to show my concern. Her brown breast

appears full. I fall to my knees and reach

for that woman’s daughter,

my son’s classmate, and clasp her

to my heaving chest, whispering into her frightened ear,

there is enough today, for once, to go around.

Michael Baker