Loveliness

Daniel Romo

Men behind me in Bryant Park spoke of 
Moses and the impending nuclear end of 
the world while I learned 
a group of ladybugs is called 
a loveliness. 
And I won’t let the hot dog man at The Met 
who yelled at me because 
my bushel of Apple Pay is often finicky 
spoil the bunch of street vendors 
I’ve patronized. 

At a church I visited in Harlem, 
the pastor told the congregation, 
You are going to die, 
and I applaud when churches 
offer first-time guests free donuts 
and directness. 

In this Brooklyn coffeehouse after 
a text from my mom in Nevada, 
I feel like such a speck in a world of regulars 
who are on a first name basis 
with these boroughs 
and baristas. 

         How can one feel so alone 
in a state of so much motion 
and with so many blends? 

A congregation is a group of alligators. 
A flamboyance is for flamingos. 
And a man is a new transplant 
attempting 
to reroot.