THAT WON'T BE
NOTHING GETS HURT
I walk unknown, like a stumble-foot loose warrior,
yet I still put out the garbage and do the laundry here.
That's way too much contradiction for me : Brooklyn
maybe instead. The five story walk-up, the old neighbor
who used to work in the Navy Yard when it made real things;
bombs and warriors and steel planks and ships. That corner
drivel diner with the nine-hour old gray coffee still sitting
in the pot, stewing all day, and people drinking it like it
was goldwasser or some elixir. Yhew! Kill me now.
Then along comes a Mary Ellen or something, with swagger.
She walks right past my young self and I have her. Now she's mine,
and always. We walk down, entering Prospect, and sit on a bench
watching some tired kids play an old game of baseball. The dry
paths are base lines, worn out by nothing at all; and the backstop
stoops, it sags and wobbles. A foul ball could knock it over.
That won't be nothing gets hurt.