by John Jay Speredakos

Shirtless, the puberty dudes

backflash the liquid laughter

with enough ink to fill a squid.

Nearby, close enough to qualify

as loiter, a stubble of bums,

shaveless, sip paper bags

and listen to the gurgles fade

like so many wasted moments.

Nobody knows the name

of the kid on the curb, vacant

and stuck in a grin, who stares

at the adolescent black girl

as she watches the white water,

waiting for unsent messages

to uncork her smile. Meanwhile,

she shares certain selfies,

posed like a frozen cobra

hoping to catch snowflakes

on its tongue.

Only the No-Name kid gets it:

Immortal in Nikes, Seeker

of the Hoodie Grail, he

bounds from the shadows,

bolts to the bubbles,

and waves to the whales

spouting on the subway.

The ones he tamed.

The ones he knows

know him by name.