Monday, January 4, 2021

Only the dead know Brooklyn

 

Only the dead know Brooklyn

In a happy place near her face,

In a beer hall evening without firm plans,

Cuddling in a booth far from Bensonhurst,

On the next earth’s tropical Taiwan isle,

At a drive-in place, smoking hot,

Unwinding to a music box of pent-up desire,  

Lounging naked in shallow sea a-bubbling

Caressing, stroking, and embracing,

Patting, hugging, and kissing,

With an accent on local history,

Awaiting the dawn for his morning DJ,

Who, in a leftover message, 

On a crisp underground station,

sounded happy that

He isn't dead in Brooklyn.


January 5, 2021

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