A yellow filtered sky before 6:30 at my desk and through my window.
A storm forcing you to stay in. To stay closer.
A motto for the screens, stop screening. Stay closer.
A growing and checked off list on the chalkboard; pay rent, go to bank, call this and that, be thankful, fight…
A sore body from moving itself within itself, weights as itself, stronger for itself and others, too.
Wiggly legs and a soupy arms weaving through unevenly pathed Brooklyn streets.
Two kids on sidewalks, shuffling through, from tennis to activities and for fun, too.
I look over and see them. Follow them. I look back and see the road. I look back at them. Their bodies are getting longer and stronger and more outstanding too.
What might they remember?
A bloodied nose at a park at the hands of a swing, a reminder of what I remember. Babies now creeping to pre-teens, bumps and bruises of another kind, normalized, of a different kind.
What might I remember?
These days. Those moments for sure.
Late evenings with tv on the couch. Mornings of TV on the speaker:
We won’t know the actual
If we never take the chance
I’d love to collapse with you
And ease you against this song
A count or two or three of how many pool and beach days. A count or two of how might I collapse into arms. Collapse into another version of the same self at another time, after counting, with more routines but hopefully, easier days once collapsed and not entirely collapsed at all, will do.
Appreciation text, a free bodega and book fair, a protest about The Census,
MAKE BROOKLYN COUNT
MAKE BROOKLYN COUNT.
A chant of all chants/
Make these days in your Brooklyn in this August count.
