named after Chief Wyandanch,
a leader of the Montaukett tribe,
is half hollow and half hills.
I settle south of the LIRR,
to read my poems
in the backyard
of a beautiful black woman called Calli.
The public library approved this poetry reading,
and paid for my fare,
but I ate enough peaches as further payment,
humming a Rakim track to myself.
Maybe I will get a job
at a bakery out here,
forget about poetry and her forever,
live a simple life.
Charm creeps under fences
and over doors, down alleys,
past diners, abandoned baseball dugouts,
Synagogues and free samples.
It's like the suburbs meets the city,
making me question what I want
with the last half of my life,
wondering if I'd be happy here or anywhere.