Brooklyn is all brick eyes
double yellow lines and cement steps
with stoop ladies by aluminum chairs
holding rosaries beside their fig trees
Brooklyn is all brick eyes
with old bakeries spilling semolina
dry anisette bread and your voice
interrupts my eyes as I stand under
Blooming magnolias and dripping rain,
forget all I meant to tell you
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Telephone poles droop
with black spaghetti lines
on old wood that leans from waiting
too long for no one’s attention,
While the cars have bumper stickers,
door dents and left hands constantly
leaving their coarse language
flung out like flags and dusty rugs
As the girls walk with their hips
double tight jeans, teased long tresses
black black lashes with red lips because
they want to be something else than
The older ladies standing in lines
with thick wavy arms and faded orange
hair glaring at the eggs and pushing carts
angry at old stoves and tired husbands
While men remember when they ran the show
only stopping not staying for coffee,
when did their careful hair fill itself grey
ashamed of hands that have lost their magic
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Coffee slugged late at night
ice cold, instant type, now almost
undissolved but we really don’t have
enough time to care about the taste
and only want something wet with
caffeine since we avoid tumbling
our bedsheets with the weight of today
Since you know me and I know you
are both stuck with brains that
don’t go off and actually can’t
since we are the engineer and the
oilwoman, the coal kid and conductor
for this maddening set of gears
called single motherhood
We stand with one arm folded
the other out like a crossing guard
in a bad mood on a wet day
our eyes grow grey as bullet steel
with rage as we are twice reprimanded for
not fitting on doe eyes to snare some Mr Kent
to descend and protect our curls from wear
We haul our own garbage into the sani truck,
haggle prices, cook dinner, wipe little tears
then scare the washer into starting again
because it is in its best interest not to
seize again until at least next Wednesday
then tell polite lies on behalf of empty
flower boxes giving dirt to nosy neighbors
There in the latest part of night
while the ringed white cups watch
our finished conversations
we are proud of our hands
defining us into worn and common
girls with rough graces pulling
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it’s a beautiful sunny day and
john bon jovi is still playing
giants stadium so come on and
shout out for tickets and
let’s listen to 1987 again,
since we choose the trap
of bigger block engine cars with
the drive shaft on the wheel and
front ends that intimidate the potholes
as the gravel spits out from tirewells
and aggression is almost instinctual
to cut that car right back off since
what else have you got or you gonna do
between here and that next salami sandwich…
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