Pink

Puerto Rican pink walks into Borough Park.

The flounces at the knees of the Hassidic girls

stop. "Fuchsia Flower"! "Coral Reef"!-

the color nobody quite can name,

the color that makes the brims of the hats

turn down and the dark heels of men turn

quickly in under "Glatt Kosher" signs.

What can you do, I ask you?

What can you do-Chanteuse!-

turn the other way. It's like a walking plate

of habichuelas rosadas over rice.

The boys at Verrechio's Pizza know what to do.

Mama! Bella! What sauce!

Turning under the tracks at New Utrecht,

it's day under the B train,

it's Tahiti.

The dogs in the A&P parking lot

whip into howling joy.

The plastic flowers under the Virgin statuette

learn about perfume.

The young delivery man from Szechuan King

slows the rhythm of bicycle

and thinks of pictures his mother showed,

those flowers from China whose name

he can't remember. He thinks of hidden

recesses of crab and the jelled sections

of ripe persimmons.

A huge double-parked Buick

stops him an earthquake of rap,

and he's no longer home in himself-

oh, hothouse lily, oh palace of silk.