the serenata of engines
rolling down and up Broadway
lulls me from sleep;
except on Friday nights.
At the dawn of each weekend,
the commuting symphony
is accompanied by duets
all pissed off and calling for blood,
How I long for the song of island winds…
You knew he was with me.
But tramps only care for themselves.”
“I didn’t know.
Do I talk like an ignorant tramp?
Do I dress like a tramp?
No, that’s you.”
“You two deserve each other.
I hope he treats you real bad
and screws you worse.”
How I long for the song of Caribbean crickets…
When the concerto
of cars and buses and drunk romance
gets too loud, I change direction.
I place the lively pub patrons at my back
and focus on the redemption
of my bit of city:
for even on the darkest of nights,
I can see the barn through trees and shadows,
conjure up the red of its walls,
and feel the gaze of horses
widening the grin on my face.
I will always long for the song
of island winds,
of Caribbean crickets,
of a palmwood cottage
settling for the night…
But while I’m grinning at my Red City Barn,
the longing is just bittersweet nostalgia,
for childhood songs now gone.
linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights, A Cup of Nostalgia
in Poetry Jam,
Brian Miller wanted to know a secret
that made my city special