I was sitting in an outer room in Heaven
Wearing the house dress that I always wore.
And I was watching these two angels from a distance.
Say, from where youīre sitting now to the corner store.
There was a pulpit and a small chair in the office
Made of wood without comparison on earth.
The doors were all of marble, but transparent.
They were writing in a book your date of birth.
Do you remember the asilo's first communion?
all the children with their candles dressed in white.
And once imprisoned you asked me for a ribbon
To mark the pages you wrote each night.
Iīm tired, Mama.
His name was Salvador Agron, but they called him The Capeman.
Back in the 1950īs when teenage toughs were called juvenile
delinquents, he was the leader of a gang in the Hellīs Kitchen
section of Manhattan called The Vampires. The Capeman murdered
two young men and when police took him away, he sneered defiantly,
"I donīt care if I burn. My mother could watch me." Out of jail,
living in quiet obscurity in the Bronx, Salvador Agron died of
a heart attack yesterday. He would have been 43 years old today.
Do you remember when we went to the Santero
And he said that you would suffer?
He was right.
I believe Iīm in the power of Saint Lazarus.
Donīt tear apart the satin summer night.
The angels both were male and softly spoken.
Their hair was lightened by the sea and sun.
They carried a chain, the chain was broken.
Then they laid it at my feet and they were gone.