IX—OR ON THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE

I got stuck on the Brooklyn Bridge
and my driver just sat like stone
to the honks and heckles of the horn-head motorist
strapped into his humid summer ride
I his passenger cringed
as we slid slowly over this monstrosity
these ark angles of iron that join us to skyscrapers
islands apart.

I got stuck on the Brooklyn Bridge
and remembered you and me cruising
on the old swing bridge back home
romancing the sunshine
caught in the traffic’s eye
and the states of pointing fingers
we were not afraid of the gossip then
and when we went roving rumours flew
like black birds in the sky
we always felt free to pause
to park…to piss along any pavement
cuss the eye of any hurricane
and felt safe to know that we were home.

In this great city hell is too dark and cold
and the drop from this bridge is death
hell walks all around us
aliens trapped on this foreign bridge
in search of fortunes.