A Cuban bongo beat moves a frail rail of a PR to tiny Flamenco steps on Bellevue’s psyche ward…..hands clapping above his swarthy features…back straightened like a cock….this aint his first rodeo….

Over in a corner looking down at the East River…..which connects to the Hudson….then delivers us all to a land far away….an old frizzy haired yenta asks….Does anybody want their roll and butter?……

Foods are brought to the PR’s…..straight from mommies kitchens….arroz…..pollo……roasted variations of pork…..frijoles negros……plates are passed….more clapping….more dancing…aye…aye…aye…No pappis to be found…..just boys with proud mothers…..happy to see every bite eaten….

Telemundo blares and shapely Mexican broads shake what they got in tight yellow….red…green… and provocative pink skirts hiked up over thick thighs that young white boys crave….Little Jose sits with his right hand under the dinner table…..

And here I am….watching……no lust…..no hunger….no laughter….just looking at the new America…..the new Bellevue…..where English is an after thought…..Crazy is crazy…..count me in…..