Showtime on the A Train

From 42nd to 14th, when the black boys
with music in their hands
stop me from writing the poem

stop me and my will                 from letting the thing go
or come, as perception says to,
I want to close from them,              turn back to the page.

But they know the exact shapes of their bodies:
they wheel and leap, flex to pose and bend to clasp
each other.          The man in me

catches ab and wrist, shirt falling
above pec, held there. The halting,       wet navel.
I feel guilty not giving up my dollar,

though it would be, itself, a guilty one.
The look in their eyes, the loose clothes:
they know what more they are giving up.

And it should cost me and my not turning away.
Shame on you,          not for looking but for
holding back, though it’s hardly worth

the poem I lost to their worked song.