Breadcrumb #648

JP INFANTE

Some nights I dream Jean Michel Basquiat is as high as a concave heaven,
bombing The Creation in the Sistine Chapel with a Miguel Piñero poem in graffiti.
The junky genius then descends like a soul in The Last Judgment getting home on time. 

Some nights I dream my stepfather gets home, 
baseball fitted to the back, long before his parole curfew while I’m still up, 
and tells me about Yankee Stadium and tagging up train carts in 1980s New York City.

In my sleep he gets home before the sun sinks in a quicksand horizon.
He gets home at an hour he can’t blame nodding off on fatigue.
He gets home long before dusk.

In my sleep his eyes don’t shut mid sentence. His hat doesn’t fall off. He never nods off. 
There’s no getting sleepy. No getting sleepy. No getting gone.
He never misses home.

YOU’RE OUTTA HERE! 
According to God, the ultimate umpire.
But we all know even that fuck makes the wrong call.

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