Alabanza. Praise the cook with the shaven head

    and a tattoo on his shoulder that said Oye，

    a blue-eyed Puerto Rican with people from Fajardo，

    the harbor of pirates centuries ago.

    Praise the lighthouse in Fajardo， candle

    glimmering white to worship the dark saint of the sea.

    Alabanza. Praise the cook's yellow Pirates cap

    worn in the name of Roberto Clemente， his plane

    that flamed into the ocean loaded with cans for Nicaragua，

    for all the mouths chewing the ash of earthquakes.

    Alabanza. Praise the kitchen radio， dial clicked

    even before the dial on the oven， so that music and Spanish

    rose before bread. Praise the bread. Alabanza.

    Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up，

    like Atlantis glimpsed through the windows of an ancient aquarium.

    Praise the great windows where immigrants from the kitchen

    could squint and almost see their world， hear the chant of nations：

    Ecuador， México， Republica Dominicana，

    Haiti， Yemen， Ghana， Bangladesh.

    Alabanza. Praise the kitchen in the morning，

    where the gas burned blue on every stove

    and exhaust fans fired their diminutive propellers，

    hands cracked eggs with quick thumbs

    or sliced open cartons to build an altar of cans.

    Alabanza. Praise the busboy's music， the chime-chime