Late in Brooklyn

It is late and time for bed
and I hear a siren scream
past my window again
and I think of where it’s
not going; to the non-crimes
as I look at the buildings and
thousands upon thousands
not doing a single thing to
harm another; so who reports
on damages that don’t happen
on murders not committed
on crimes that never broke
through a conscious mind.
Who is compiling statistics
for
 the crime that isn’t happening?
For it is something to witness.

 

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Poet’s Notes:
An image of the original paper draft is below.
If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

new-doc-126_1

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