I heard a voice deep inside me, like it was coming from a well.
My voice, so small and so deep in the ground.
This is how men cry.

A small ray of sun shines down from the sky and I shiver in the light.
Shirtless men who once dreamed of becoming baseball players,
now hang out from tenement windows like strong men in some weird urban surface.

Nina hasn't called today.
Still, the girls work the corners wilting like crazy bouqets, so beautiful, so passed their bebop glory days.
Some have been picked, some already dried and hanging upside down their roots exposed,
they dream of the cool-living earth they will never touch again.

I think I see Nina's face in a cafe, almost but not quite the color of her hair.
And so, I walk on my muttering way and wipe a piece of dust from my eye. This is how men cry.
This is how we cry.