There’s a Brooklyn-shaped hole in my chest
At night I listen for the sounds of traffic on the BQE.
When my feet hit the floor in the morning
they point, on their own, toward Terrace Bagels,
a quick thousand-mile walk from here.
Buying freshly made tofu from the nice Korean lady;
using one of our woks to make fried rice in my little kitchen;
watching Billy Bragg and Steve Earle on Coney Island Beach;
coming up from the subway next to the church.
These phantom limbs are attached like my arms and legs.
I can feel the sidewalks of Windsor Terrace and
the cobblestoned streets of DUMBO, smell the miso ramen
at Naruto, hear the church bells on our corner.
In the wake of Hurricane Sandy the news channels
are filled with photos of the flooded city.
All I can think about when I see them is how much
I miss those streets, those tunnels, those bridges.
12 November 2012
Auburn, AL
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