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Matthew Putman: Poems

On The Bumpy Street

Posted on November 9, 2011 with 0 comments

 

In the state of Cobble Hill, the slopes look
ravished, and vacant,
as the poor poured from them
20 years ago.
When squirrels moved in, the sparrows out, and on time
I spent a million hours on bar-stools,
watching as old men with cigarettes cross cut
into bearded gentleman of a one novel success,
or perhaps a life long ago, last year
on Wall Street.
Where songs are heard by birds, not bums,
whose streets still cobble
for name only.
Shadows and mists of men long past, when
homo was horrible and hideous
was hidden from all but the lime of a dark artist light.
Violent memories made real. Multiplying babies,
brats, bottles of Craft Brew
reminiscences of jazz age sparks
the last gas light on Henry St..
Where I walk faster for the goal of reaching
myself, when one outnumbers 3
in crowds of ego that only boroughs
to the west could conquer, until
I am resting in the ground of the Local F train
or in Greenwood Cemetery.

 

 

 

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