#poem To Brooklyn “Send your poems to the New Yorker.” she said But, I’m living in New Jersey, and it’s a rare day The Sun is shining, though lazy, and breezy Banning all thoughts of any cities’ steely hostility Three O’clock near-Autumn Leaning upon green oak’s deciduousness Squeezing despair’s unwept hazy oasis From the day’s cerulean perfection I’ve been to New York City, to visit Several times, as a boy, and as a man And I was wide-eyed, young Wearing a tucked-in striped shirt In the sooty gleam “And leave out the swear words.” she reminded The cabbies all drove so quickly As vendor-cart hawkers squawked Disturbing the bobbing-head city doves And the bobble-eyed crowds jostled Hard leather’s heels clicked and scuffled Chatter’s murmuring muffle muddled Ten-astride-wide sidewalks wobbled Shaking under the din Buildings, silver-gray So tall, I’d swayed As my eyes strained to see, almost falling Trapped some of them in Oil-paint dapple people Peeking through tall windows Iron bars on the lower Seeking something of wonder In the rustling streets below Perhaps, perhaps, a memory Of a love which’d once been Which’d once run, ruffle-dress pulled high Pale, delicate hands, held, led briskly Through whisper-shadow alleys Wishing they might escape Wishing they might run-- away To Brooklyn The place of my birth And when I’d been there Returned I’d held my ground As I looked ‘round Defiant and proud Of my brownstone town
Posted on: Thu, 14 Aug 2014 01:08:21 +0000
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