Hunt and Gather

Farming in Brooklyn on an Autumn morning.

Leaning across traffic to notice a wrinkle of herb.

Fresh strands and strains my eyes.

Beauty coalescing in drops around the sewer.

Savoring miles of torment in microns of tension.

I looked at a needle lying next to the hair barrette.

Seeing the pick ax of a long life of 30 something years.

Piling on papers with bold text of nonsense.

Agri-light, municipal stagnation.

A border between the work and the wealth.

A comma, between the then and new.

A coffee to invigorate and relax

A bullet for a point, or a chance.

A missile to defend and detect.

A child to scream and silence our fears.

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