On Viewing "The Block"

On a brownstone block in Brooklyn
lived my love.
Three stoop steps, brown door, railroad flat
on the second floor.
Inside, on a foam couch, we loved,
in an ancient tub with iron feet
we bathed with peppermint castile soap—
picked up at the shop across from the bar.
On a chrome table with a cloth
we ate: cheeseburgers, spinach pasta, and mangos--
groceries from the corner store—
up on the tar roof we lay on towels in the June sun
drinking beer, reeking of coconut oil, lolling
in the blue music, up above the block.

On a brownstone block in Brooklyn…
I fell in love.
Dragged our laundry up the bumpy concrete,
sidestepped the drunks outside the tavern,
breathed upon re-entry from the F train,
inspired a song and worshipped chicken enchiladas.
I fell asleep
in the green grass of Prospect Park and was not robbed,
rode the bus from my place to his,
witnessed the fleeing muggers chased by undercover cops
from the D Train.

On a brownstone block in Brooklyn
I tasted margaritas with salt, sex, and my self.
Became an actress,
lived in the midst of brown, tan, peach, English, Spanish,
Creole, Hindi, Farsee, Yiddish, and slang,
found Stanislavsky and Suzuki,
friendship and feud,
quit smoking and wrote a thesis.

Brownstone, stoop, smog, and sex
all called up on a canvas.
My madeleine—a collage
Of city life.