Brooklyn’s heart beat courses through my feet,
Jackhammer and carhorns,
Borequa mulatto girl with headphones dancing counterpoint to the construction.
It is college friend catchup and the sleepy daughter in the backseat neither of us expected a decade ago,
Soul searching, alone, in a city I abandoned long ago,
Whose roots never withered,
A tree grows still in its heart,
With the glances that are cast.
It is college entrance pilfered past guards punched out for the weekend early,
It is Park Slope pizza as condolence for the favorite place closed,
Hipster mothers with their noses upturned,
Carhorn choruses to keep you going despite traffic ahead,
Parallel parking a necessity, not a novelty, skills not easily shed.
It is Bedford, Coney, Greenpoint, Sheepshead,
BQE to the LIE,
Sleeping soundly through the symphony of the city waking,
Dreaming desert dreams city folk could never imagine,
Mountain’s majesty breaking through the plains and fashioned
from red rocks remembered
Running from a place I never thought that I’d call home.