On Waterfront

There is no safer bet than the music, laden
falling down the stairs and not getting hurt
reaching in the tunnel black, ass bare and justice oriented
on the safety seat of the A train.
Blue like ocean coming up inside me,
dirty and strong
out into the sunlight past the nexus of down trodden hell
mixing with fashions catastrophic
smelling fried chicken and familiar eyes on the bus...
back to brooklyn never felt so fair
done with mild misgivings and electronic slavery
paperwork in my footsteps leads to weeds the height of short men
and tall children, my name drunken and scrawled into
sidewalk charcoal grey a summer's drunken night astray
more than one or two summers ago; sunlight changing to rain
untouchable here, leaving trunks for shoving hard
into the buttermilk channel.
Liquid fog melting industrial sky over islands I can see,
the solid white and amber lights of tugboats
bellowing after me to stay, to not leave their view
as often as I do.  Smells like wine being made,
harmonicas all in a line that play
with me, insulating me on all sides
trees stand firm, and shelter us from city life.
One day soon, I'll find a way not to leave you.
I'll pour myself a big, stiff drink, set up in this rocking
chair, and stay all night to watch your boats move smooth,
along our rough waters, safe in the bet and too terrible
to write too many words about.  The hideaway is a secret-
and we like it better that way...

M. Lucia