In my bedroom, I figure
I should get around to reading
what Richie wrote me.
I open his lined notebook paper,
read his neat, self-conscious handwriting:
When I die, Dublin
will be written in my heart.
—James Joyce
What’s this supposed to mean?
Is Dublin a substitute for the Bronx?
True, many Irish live here,
but there’s nothing about this place
that would inscribe it in anyone’s heart.
Our history is pedestrian,
except for Edgar Allan Poe.
And Woodlawn Cemetery
is a who’s who of famous people:
Joseph Pulitzer, Herman Melville,
Fiorello LaGuardia,
except that most of them
didn’t live in the Bronx.
They came here to rest in peace.
Personally, I believe if you can’t find peace
when you’re alive,
when you’re dust it’s probably too late.