Corona (and I’m not talking about the beer)
I’m talking about a place that is a little village
perched under the number 7 train in Queens
between Junction Boulevard and 111th St.
I’m talking about the Corona Ice King
Spaghetti Park and P.S. 19.
The Corona F. Scott Fitzgerald
called the valley of ashes
as the Great Gatsby drove past it
on his night of carousal, but what me
and my own know as home.
And we didn’t know about any valley of ashes
because by then it had been topped off by our houses.
The kind made from brick this tan color
no self-respecting brick would be at all.
That’s Corona.
I’m talking about Flushing Meadows Park
home of World’s Fair relics
where it felt as if some ancient tribe
of white people had lived there long ago.
It was our own Stonehenge
our own Easter Island sculptures
made from a time when New York City
and all the country
was imagining the world’s future.
Back when the future
still seemed exciting and glossy,
like some kind of old stainless steel
science fiction movie
not now when the future seems
like the inside of a dark coat sleeve.
I’m talking about Corona
under the shadow of Shea Stadium
where brown men became famous
and moved to Long Island
where our brothers played baseball
in the tar school yards on the weekends.
Back then
our brothers’ futures
were so open and they were so close
they all dreamed the same dream together
That with the crack of a bat
and the pull of their skinny brown legs
they could run away from the smell of garbage
the fear on the streets
the boys beating them up
when they came out of the masjids
in the evening.
They could hit that bat and it would land them
all the way into the safety of Shea Stadium
and then passed that into the island
that was long and rich
where all the baseball stars lived.