(Two from Brooklyn) (with photo)

Grand Army Plaza, Prospect Park, Brooklyn


At Prospect Park Brooklyn

In the park alone, I stand or sit
and nobody charges me a fee.
No one can ask me to leave.
Nobody will be dragging a mop
dipped in acrid cleaner as a hint.

It may snow soon; it’ll surely rain.
But I can stay, there’s no curfew.
The police have better things to do
than bother an obvious lunatic
who remains merely to sanctify
not owing anyone a damned thing.


In a Backyard in Brooklyn

The narrow rusted ladder
rose thirty feet high
from a dense bank of weeds

As if an artist had placed
it there, but then, further
down, more rose up.

…In the old days to hang clothes.
It held the line from windows
I was told. Oh. So. Oh.

Then why are there rungs
and why in the age of laundries
are they remaining here?

Some people must like them.
It’s like a stairway to heaven
said yet another.

I could see. Who on earth
would dare curse heaven by
removing these rusty things?


Poet’s Notes ####

If you feel strongly about these poems, leave a comment below!
(I won’t delete rude comments, I’ll just reuse them in a poem — with attribution. ;-))

The image of the initial drafts can be seen here:

new doc 28_1 new doc 29_1

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