Tonight I feel less lonely than last night.
No, I’m not with friends
nor am I in bed with a stranger.
I don’t have a date this weekend.
I’m walking in my immigrant neighborhood
who has just come home from a long Monday at the shop or the factory,
and is now feeding the children dinner,
looks forward to a bit of TV,
then hits the sack. It is a sweet exhaustion,
and sweeter still, the man on the sidewalk
to the girl leaning out from her bedroom window,
and still sweeter,
the men drinking, not one talking, in bars playing the salsa or the merengue,
whose iron thighs have softened
Plan for this poem-in-progress