Classic Poem

Another Sunday afternoon
in fall
in Brooklyn
dead leaves rustle
over the cracked sidewalks
mixed with the trash
of careless minds
the September sun
is a golden orb
spinning on the web
of the azure sky
and the sound of
children
laughing
dapples the eager air
breathe deep
and feel the warmth
that penetrates the bones
when time is a pendant
you choose not to wear...

A crowd on the corner
women and men
idly
passing the quiet hours
in casual conversation
I pass
and there before me
ten feet away no more
a crumpled figure
in the gutter
drunk asleep? !
a long and frivolous night, my friend?
(chuckle softly
do not wake)
But then...
the smooth line
yes
near the head there
trickled, dried
of blood
is almost
imperceptible
the crowd on the corner
patiently waiting
for someone
to take him
away

Another Sunday afternoon
in fall
in Brooklyn.


(Previously published in Ygdrasil, Nov. '99)