Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge | Lorenzo Norbis

Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge to neon haze Manhattan
1960’s Dylanesque dreams, with messiah headed songwriters
drunk on free verse and G chords, amphetamine scribbling
in the all night cafes, watching times square revolve
around itself, spinning till it drops—and us with it.

Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge to lights and lights
fluorescent offices and lonesome bedrooms
sky severed, dimming down—never off—starless,
bare to reveal a yellow cartoon moon above Empire State,
the bulbs are all breaking down—it’s late.

Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge to lonely traffic lights
telling nobody in particular to go and to stop,
avoiding trickling piss and piling trash, pausing to rest
on the steps of the MET, considering each uncircumcised
statue inside—facade breaking down.

Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge smelling of cigarettes
and bad decisions, tumbleweed hair tumbling
in the wind, bitter cold biting chipped nails, sniffling
the wafting East River currents, craving warmth
passing dead storefront windows—strange reflection.

Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge to an unhappy smile
and construction paused in the streets, singing a song
in my mind, reminiscing briefly, surveying sidewalks,
walking alongside a stranger, leaving and entering
bars made of lovers with nowhere to go—now gone.