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,
He isn't dead in Brooklyn.
January 5, 2021
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