Solo Photo Walk

Down these mean streets of Brooklyn

Walking down these mean streets of Brooklyn,

I hear the stories etched in concrete,

Graffiti tags like area codes,

Tattooed across town, re-zoning the neighborhood.

The laundromat on the corner,

Once said “Love, Steve” in green letters,

Now it says “Иди на хуй, мудак” in pink,

A big heart around it all.

A scaffolding sprouts along the walk, stealing the sun from the trees,

A blue tarp billows out the flame-blasted windows, birds chirping

somewhere near. But there’s no sign of green or echoes of forgotten

gardens. Plastic and steel, an urban jungle of man-made vines.

Men in hard hats, heavy boots, bright electric vests,

Working in perfect light, their skin dark and gentle,

Caulking the leaky corners, re-bolstering the baseboards,

Doing the best they can.

The ruins in progress blossom,

Flowers shed their rubble in the morning,

Concrete blooms every day.

These are transitory lands, wandering lands.

The old wheel inside the wheel keeps its pace,

This place used to be a place,

Now stuck in possibility, sticky with potential.

I am furious about all this joy.

People could be living a life here,

Making a casserole, watching TV, camping out back.

But now, it’s just dusty streets and metal pieces,

Strewn about a big empty lot, a place that could have been the place.

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’Til next time.
ak