Brooklyn Summer

Step out into the heat, just to feel the air.

The morning rumble of trucks.

The steady rhythm of the city’s beating heart

And syncopated chirping of the local fowl

Decorate the roses that are growing still.

Brooklyn.

The town that never rests.

The growing void that swallows what was.

The engine eating through the brownstones

Turning history into a commodity.

The class war poster.

The drunk on the sidewalk.

The deep base beat from the souped up machine.

It all blends into the molten street.

Snaking its way to the bridge.

The bridge to the center.

That deep burning heart of America.

The city that gave birth to us all.

That sweltering, breathing, furnace.

It can never be filled.

I feel it pulling me under.

Like a riptide.