[Hope you enjoy this fine poem by B.N.]
Far Rockaway
Today even the name makes me drowsy
As the bus ride and ocean air.
Some trick of change, bit of silver shining.
Each time she rode the bus she tried to cheat
The driver out of a dime. And even he
Felt a loss when the used Kleenex fell from
Her purse like angels with wings stained
Claret red. It wasn't so much the money,
Busses were the synagogues then and we
God's emissaries.
When I think of it, summer is like a short guttural
In a dying language and I, half listening, catch a phrase or two
If she doesn't get up and find a husband soon, the birds will
build a nest in her snatch.
Journeys are a succession of rented summer bungalows
And winter apartments, they always belong to someone else.
These dwellings we give back graciously, the floors swept clean
These that are offered generously only in retrospect
And only once did we make it as far as the sea.
We wore scarves in the sun, greeted by multi-colored umbrellas
Set out into a loud fabric—an embroidered tapestry
Where the birds nest, the silver water changes,
The smug dime rests, behind the
folded wings of tissue angels.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010