Joralemon Street

                                                                                    

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