Too much sleep too much drink
The King of Brooklyn deigned
to let me to sit beside him on the train.
His tattoo artist has a lovely cursive hand.
Sprawled all across his body and on limbs
I thought to ask him for a referral
but thought it wiser to hold my tongue
and let His Majesty enjoy a ride through the bowels of his County unfettered.
Royal and proud he sits in green robes and black hood
listening to songs of his minstrels echoing through from the very recent past.
At the end of the day no matter the hour
I take the train back under ground,
And tired and weary as I may be
no matter the day
As I step out and walk up the stairs into the County of Kings
I feel the weight of the worry, the wary, the doubt,
the rush, the noise, the volume, the density,
the rage, the smell - all of it
And walking home I hear a song I have never heard by a band I didn't know I loved
And I skip and dance around drunks and dog walkers
under the trees on the sidewalk
along the width of the numbered streets and avenues
marveling at the mysterious ratio of this width to the height of the brownstones of my neighbors - aged hipsters, former philosophers, peaceniks, smart investors, the dog and stroller crowd, and the original authentic locals.
A weight is lifted and I can feel my heart, my breath, the sweat, the whisper, the laughter. A smile spread from the corner of my mouth.
I have come home at last to myself.