Poetry

27A 
 
There is no “B” to follow
 miss this exit
and you can still sneak
your way in. Bridgeport—
city of illusions
to get out.  
everywhere, everyone knows
there are more
ways to get in, than
to get out.
Around the bend
 
this highway will dump
you downtown
but what is that sound?
Drums and hums, electricity
shoots through wires.
 
Sign says “Welcome to the Park City”
Silver slabs support
Brick laid on brick
Busted bumpy roads
Gutter clogged with trash, Bridgeport—
 
city of confusion. Where
Are you looking to go?
What are you looking
For? Here, you’ll find
Everything and nothing
 
At the same time. Pick
A street, a corner
That intersects with another
From the South end
To the North you’ll see
 
What used to be, the history
That hangs in the balance.
© 2013

E83743CF-9D85-43D4-B3A8-BCF5D923A7DA 

 
Headed Home
 
Gritty soil sinking my grandmother’s
burial site is what
I remember. Not the exact
Words carved into a rose colored tombstone.
Not how many rows it is
From thick lines of maple trees that loom.
Not even the last time I was there.
For this, yes-
I feel guilty.
 
I do recall my brother
Hunched over wrangled with pain
My parents, too, desperate for her,
And how cold I felt,
Even when we would visit in May
Me – the only one without tears.
 
I was, in those moments
An intruder and not a part of them.
For this, yes, I felt guilty.
Then, I would always turn
In search of home.
In winter it was easier to see.
Pass the unstained fence, through
The lazy limbs of crooked trees
Hints of our red duplex
There in view.
 
All these years when pain tried
To pin me down
This was how I coped-
Always with my mind on home,
My back, always
 
Turned to death.

© 2013