One of the earliest beliefs
that I still cling onto in life,
is that I was born in the wrong time.
I am here but I am supposed to be
somewhere in the past,
when the world was simpler,
and a man could make a living writing poems
from under thunder water.
a simple life
of raking leaves
and helping out at the factory
while toiling in literature by candle light.
the green-silver trolley car rolls by loudly
from Greenwood Cemetery
to Flatbush Avenue
and I just watch it with time travel eyes.
the technology of the day
carries me slowly by sun,
and a wonderful woman
meets me by the carousel
after work, before pub.
the church is the tallest building in Brooklyn,
and the kids play on the stoop,
as we hear the boats come and go
but we can't see them.
without the fury of worry,
all the debts I owe
could be paid in strawberries or chores,
or I'd escape a vagabond
and no one would ever know what happened to me.