Down at the end of Baxter Street, where Five Points   
slum used to be, just north of Tombs, is a pocket park.   
On these summer days the green plane trees’ leaves   
linger heavy as a noon mist above   
the men playing mah jongg—more Chinese   
in the air than English.  The city’s composed   
of village greens; we rely on the Thai   
place on the corner: Tom Kha for a cold,   
jasmine tea for fever, squid for love, Duck Yum   
for loneliness.  Outside, the grove of heat,   
narrow streets where people wrestle rash and unseen   
angels; inside, the coolness of a glen and the wait staff   
in their pale blue collars offering ice water.   
Whatever you’ve done or undone, there’s a dish for you   
to take out or eat in: spice for courage, sweet for chagrin.