Everyday, at the Delancy entrance of the Washington Bridge,
still dressed as an officer,
Viejo yelled at cars:
"Viva, Loisaida, viva!"
One night a DWD knocked down
a parking sign. Next morning,
Viejo tugged that sign like it was Columbus, and laid down the law:
"Mi casa es tu casa, pero
no solo para ti."
Except weekends, on the northwest corner of Clinton and Delancy, children with their mothers walking to and from school
got a smile and a wave from Viejo before he blew loudly into his clasped hands�a proud Taino with his mystical seahorn,
uniform ironed, hat straight, rest
of the time eyes squinted for drug pushers, burning tenements,
rent reaching the moon.
Officer Viejo was always there, tall, buff, energized, cheering on the young fellas
practicing doo-wop;
still there, a bit hunched over,
thin, never �retired,� cheering on the young ladies
practicing battle raps.
It was his corner,
keeping the corner ours�
until some new landlord,
as rumored,
called up the mental ward.