Patricia Carragon
Mr. Bojangles
A raggedy man lived for music
and Nina Simone,
called himself “Mr. Bojangles,”
played jazz on his secondhand sax,
tap-danced for tips and smiles.
He’d perform on his makeshift
stage
at West 4th Street
for an underground medley
of passing souls and flavors—
both the good and bad.
His silver cup sometimes
overflowed—
other times, emptied by thieves.
Some would listen,
others would run for their train
or walk to the nearest staircase.
The roar of trains competed with
his sax,
but not enough to quash its notes—
even local rats would stop
and show their respect.
He spoke about Vietnam,
his loss of friends to drugs and disease,
his run-ins with the police,
his life on the streets,
his need to survive,
his need to spread sunshine
at West 4th Street.
Yes, he would speak again about
his life,
then break into another dance and tune.
When he finished,
I left a tip and boarded my train—
not knowing that his sax and dance steps
would be no more.
—Patricia Carragon
lived in air particles—
that walls had eyes and ears.
A black and white movie—
invisible to all, except her.
Ghosts of former residents—
battles in loveless marriages
and family disputes,
fruitless dreams of the Irish Sweepstakes,
bread winners’ salaries
to pay bookies’ and barkeepers’ rents.
From the collapsed kitchen ceiling,
a leak’s a cappella rhythm
banged inside a plastic pail,
The voice of angry water
sang about accumulated disrepair.
Ruby’s mama restrained her tears—
a victim of systematic neglect
No family to fall back on,
and her foster parents never cared,
Her husband disappeared,
left her to deal with life on her own,
She had to be strong, had a daughter to raise—
worked two jobs—long hours—menial pay.
Sacrificed her daughter’s needs—
not enough to feed her landlord’s greed.
Government assistance had holes in its pockets,
and she considered herself lucky
to be eligible.
She immersed herself in jazz CDs instead of crack—
Monk would take the Coltrane,
Gryce would ride his sax and more.
Jazz from an earlier time—
named her daughter Ruby to honor Monk.
Ruby studied her mama’s expression,
found strength in her eyes.
She immersed herself into air particles,
listened to the leak become jazz,
let crayons recite her stories
inside a thick spiral notebook.
—Patricia Carragon
graceful curves
from another time.
But the years
didn’t treat her well.
Season after season,
she stood like a grand dame,
witnessed the birth of another century—
not for better, but for worse.
Weeds grew around her—
poverty infected her.
Like an incurable disease,
it jumped from house to house,
spreading its anxiety and despair.
Even the strongest were not immune.
The weather grew grayer
and colder.
Her sturdy roof weakened,
couldn’t keep fighting the storms.
Her windowpanes
surrendered to leaks.
Her swollen ceilings
broke down and cried.
As water trickled down her walls,
her beautiful bones became brittle.
The chill inside worsened,
and the marble fireplace,
too tired to comfort her aging owner.
Abandonment moved in—
her beautiful bones
held on to her curves.
She watched greed invite gentrification—
they built a green fence around her,
they came for her neighbors as well.
No remorse for the happiness
that created her foundation
and earliest memories.
Her shabby doors, faded shingles,
and broken window frames
were dismantled,
tossed as trash.
Even in death,
amid the dust and rubble,
her bones were still beautiful.
A plain brick box is being built
on her unmarked grave.
Her beautiful bones
now rest in landfill.
—Patricia Carragon
In a world of breaking news
fed by the oligarch’s will—stop!
Breathe—
close your eyes, zone out, and heal.
The collective is texting you—
the world is still worth saving.
Beauty’s tough, a seasoned survivor—
from a child’s imagination to the tiniest leaf.
Take a walk and observe the trees.
They are way wiser.
They don't complicate matters.
They live in the now.
The roses will return—
ask each crocus and daffodil,
and the tulip, too.
April showers wash this landscape—
a rainbow curves over the Verrazano,
the cold gray sky turns cornflower blue.
The snow belongs to yesterday—
kids want to play by the swings,
hear Mister Softee’s jingle up the block.
Your life won’t be perfect,
but kindness and serenity
won’t cost a cent.
The collective texts you again—
yes, the world is still worth saving.
Dictators will come and go,
and humanity will have the last word.
—Patricia Carragon
I feel so different
from the child
who sits alone
but she is not alone.
I am by her side
but she can’t see me,
hear me,
feel my hand
on her shoulder.
But she will be all right.
I can’t hug her,
dry her tears,
fight those demons
that mock her.
I can’t tell her
not to worry
about the harsh years ahead
and that wounds will reopen,
unannounced at night.
But she will be all right.
I feel so different now
but I am learning
to remember her,
care for her,
live for her,
honor her,
love her
because
I am still her.
And I will be all right.
—Patricia Carragon
Bio:
Brooklyn writer Patricia Carragon received a 2025 Best of
the Net nomination for her haiku, “Cherry Blossoms,” from Poets Wear Prada. She
hosts Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology. She
is the editor of Sense & Sensibility Haiku Journal and listed
on the poet registry for The Haiku Foundation. Carragon’s jazz
poetry collection, Stranger on the Shore, is forthcoming from Human
Error Publishing. Her latest novel is Angel Fire (Alien
Buddha Press, 2020). Books from Poets Wear Prada are Meowku (2019)
and The Cupcake Chronicles (2017). Her book Innocence is
from Finishing Line Press (2017).
called himself “Mr. Bojangles,”
played jazz on his secondhand sax,
tap-danced for tips and smiles.
at West 4th Street
for an underground medley
of passing souls and flavors—
both the good and bad.
other times, emptied by thieves.
others would run for their train
or walk to the nearest staircase.
but not enough to quash its notes—
even local rats would stop
and show their respect.
his loss of friends to drugs and disease,
his run-ins with the police,
his life on the streets,
his need to survive,
his need to spread sunshine
at West 4th Street.
then break into another dance and tune.
I left a tip and boarded my train—
not knowing that his sax and dance steps
would be no more.
Ruby, My Dear
Ruby believed that the pastlived in air particles—
that walls had eyes and ears.
invisible to all, except her.
battles in loveless marriages
and family disputes,
fruitless dreams of the Irish Sweepstakes,
bread winners’ salaries
to pay bookies’ and barkeepers’ rents.
a leak’s a cappella rhythm
banged inside a plastic pail,
sang about accumulated disrepair.
a victim of systematic neglect
and her foster parents never cared,
left her to deal with life on her own,
worked two jobs—long hours—menial pay.
Sacrificed her daughter’s needs—
not enough to feed her landlord’s greed.
Government assistance had holes in its pockets,
and she considered herself lucky
to be eligible.
Monk would take the Coltrane,
Gryce would ride his sax and more.
Jazz from an earlier time—
named her daughter Ruby to honor Monk.
found strength in her eyes.
listened to the leak become jazz,
let crayons recite her stories
inside a thick spiral notebook.
Beautiful Bones
She had beautiful bones—graceful curves
from another time.
didn’t treat her well.
she stood like a grand dame,
witnessed the birth of another century—
not for better, but for worse.
poverty infected her.
it jumped from house to house,
spreading its anxiety and despair.
and colder.
couldn’t keep fighting the storms.
surrendered to leaks.
broke down and cried.
her beautiful bones became brittle.
and the marble fireplace,
too tired to comfort her aging owner.
her beautiful bones
held on to her curves.
they built a green fence around her,
they came for her neighbors as well.
that created her foundation
and earliest memories.
and broken window frames
were dismantled,
tossed as trash.
amid the dust and rubble,
her bones were still beautiful.
on her unmarked grave.
now rest in landfill.
What a Wonderful World
(inspired by Louis Armstrong)fed by the oligarch’s will—stop!
close your eyes, zone out, and heal.
the world is still worth saving.
from a child’s imagination to the tiniest leaf.
They are way wiser.
They don't complicate matters.
They live in the now.
ask each crocus and daffodil,
and the tulip, too.
a rainbow curves over the Verrazano,
the cold gray sky turns cornflower blue.
kids want to play by the swings,
hear Mister Softee’s jingle up the block.
but kindness and serenity
won’t cost a cent.
yes, the world is still worth saving.
and humanity will have the last word.
Feel So Different
(inspired by Sinéad O’Connor)from the child
who sits alone
but she is not alone.
I am by her side
but she can’t see me,
hear me,
feel my hand
on her shoulder.
dry her tears,
fight those demons
that mock her.
I can’t tell her
not to worry
about the harsh years ahead
and that wounds will reopen,
unannounced at night.
but I am learning
to remember her,
care for her,
live for her,
honor her,
love her
because
I am still her.
