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Poem	It rained the day they buried Tito Puente The eyes of drug dealers following me as I walked through the streets past shivering prostitutes women of every sex young boys full of piss and lampposts like ghosts in the night past Jimmy the hustler boy with the really big dick cracked out on the sidewalk wrapped in a blanket donated by the trick that also gave him genital herpes and Fruit Loops for breakfast past the hospital where Tio Cesar got his intestines taken out in exchange for a plastic bag where he now shits and pisses the 40’s he consumed for 50 years past 3 of the thugs who sexually assaulted those women at Central Park during the Puerto Rican Day parade lost in their machismo, marijuana and Mira mami’s ‘cause boricuas do it better Tito’s rambunctious and unruly rhythms never touched them never inspired them to rise above the ghetto and, like La Bruja said, “Ghet Over It!” his timbales never echoed in the salsa of their souls though they had probably danced to his cha-cha-cha they never listened to the message between the beats urging them to follow their hearts On a train back to Brooklyn feeling dispossessed and dreamless I look up to read one of those Poetry In Motion ads sharing a car with somebody sleeping realizing that inspiration is everywhere these days & though the Mambo King’s body may be six-feet under his laughter and legend will live forever The next morning I heard the crow crowing, “Oye Como Va” his song was the sunlight in my universe & I could feel Tito’s smile shining down on me
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