Brooklyn
Heights.
A
12x16 Studio.
A
walk-up 3 flights.
Where
lived my love, ago.
Brooklyn
Bridge.
Thru
angled window,
stolid,
stoic, solid,
yet,
fluid, with autos,
trains
and people
scurrying
about
in
and on its labyrinth.
Walt
Whitman knew its spirit.
A
Brooklyn Candy Store
where
Dave-the-Bookie,
a
fiduciary, in all sports
speculation,
catered to
Heights
fortune seekers.
The
store flanked by a
French
Patisserie and a
French
Charcuterie.
Some
Trifecta.
Only
in Brooklyn(?)
Brooklyn
Eagle.
Hometown
newspaper.
Waiting,
each afternoon
on
the stoop.
Reporters
and reports
with
a Brooklyn accent.
Filling
the gap of a
sophisticated
city and a
working class borough.
Brookly Navy Yard.
A
short walk to this grimy,
labor
intensive, lovable acreage.
Bars,
outside the Yard, nick-
named,
“Buckets of Blood.”
The
oeuvre of Hart Crane.
The
Promenade.
A
scenic view of Manhattan.
A
Gay gathering place for
cruising
at sunset, an easy
romance
in a romantic setting.
Each
season, Fashionistas strut
their
bespoke designs.
Lovers.
We
spent a year in this scenario.
Emotional people.
Sentimental places.
Affecting remembrances.
Au
revoir mon amour.
©TPuma/MMXXIII
