Still Life in Another Neighborhood We Can't Afford

Pearl-lined with a lace stratagem
the day’s asleep in drag on the sofa.
Come upon sheets in the courtyard.
Blue first then yellow irises out front.
A park whose piers secret away a song
only fish and the drowned know to sing:
luchando, luchando, luchando.
They say no wharfage here and mean it.
Grass painted green. Living rooms full
of Lucian Freud. No sequins in the window
on the corner, only a few flags—none of them
mauve with sea-foam rings. All
the Dominicans are leaving. I repeat,
all the Dominicans are leaving.