Every city has them——pools of helmeted， stained men

    Clustered around engines grinding through night.

    White arc lights sear the jagged， scraped surface

    Of dirt and cut stone as the men stand guard

    Over broken water mains， busted sewer lines， road repair.

    Who knows how long they've been there， caught

    By the old mephitic street vapors， swallowed by the noise

    Of machinery， the long blue flashes of smoke？

    Where much is lacking， faces say， there are many wishes.

    Or so it seemed after midnight at 5th and 53rd

    When this black woman in tight red shorts， lacy blouse，

    And black bra clipped past men cutting out a section

    Of curb with backhoe and jackhammers.

    A riveting Giotto

    Angel， she'd plunged to earth to fill momentarily the wing

    Of a triptych. As she turned the corner， a white man hunched

    Over a hammer， took his eyes off his work， "Hey， Valentine，

    I'll take some of that." With his compressor hissing over

    Taxi horns， she never noticed his pain when the hammer

    Hit his boot， probably broke his foot. He slumped， wailing，

    Ripped the gold cross from his neck as though he might

    Heave it after her. I could see in his eyes how close

    Hate is to love——the Angel of Mercy now an ugly cunning

    Fury， the source of so much uninhaled pollen， the cause

    Of the world cut in twain——as she vanished deep into

    The luminous fibers of the neat block， both answering

    And failing to answer the many prayers she had heard.