an evening in flatbush

what one doesn’t see
in my brooklyn sky
there are children and dogs
there is you, maybe
i am also here
but you don’t see me
up here

there are bodegas selling vegetables
that i don’t like
but they do have pineapples
that look quite spiffy when
properly attired

there are overpriced books and
there are illusive coffee smoothie drinks
but they cost three dollars

in an image
you can’t hear the sirens
they woop and holler
you can’t hear the creole
blasting from the churches
there are a lot of them
they sound… lively
lively isn’t a good word
sometimes
i fancy that they sound panicked
or perhaps earnest
they prove their faith by shouting it into the street
like the fellow in port authority
monday night

you can’t hear the couple arguing
on the second floor of that building
down the street

you can’t hear the director’s dog
one floor below
i wonder what it looks like
the rest of us aren’t allowed to have one
though

you don’t see the parents
towing tiny children
that can barely reach
their parent’s hand

you can’t see the construction
the houses and apt buildings
their faces ever-changing
their roofs never complete

i leave every weekend though
i go home
upstate

i wonder what i miss
i wonder what i don’t

i miss the brooklyn sunsets
the early evenings
the sky that robert mapplethorp could be painting