Poems from New York, #2

about my mother, and the hornbeam trees

underneath this

there is a passage

loose, rocky soil,

ideal for aloe, that unlikely balm,

except for climate.

What I see here, instead,

are mostly weeds I can’t identify

and too much brick

cement steps

a “yard” made of gravel

a man diligently tending the next

concrete plot

over there

and this one I sit in

a stranger


just a bit.

Hart St. Brooklyn, NY

One thought on “Poems from New York, #2

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