On this day, 40 years ago, August 26th, 1979, my family stepped off a plane at JFK. On the way to our new hometown, Sparta, NJ, my father insisted we stop at the base of the World Trade Center towers. He was awed by the towers. And they were terrific, sure, but, coming from the…
I am resting. Watch. I am fluttering, you follow. Be wise when you chase.
What color are you? It depends on the light, no? Our hooks are in the mud.
Precious is you.Jade, ruby, amber opals.A fiend tugs within.
Wet between your toes Softly walk upon the pond Beware of below
Leaves thrust, firm and new. Breathing with callow desire. Petals rot like flesh.
Eight point three pounds. Gallons upon gallons. Displace me now.
The one word to learn. In any tongue is thank you. Rising from your bunk.
In a flat I rest. My neighbor, her blooms are fresh. And the rich look down.
Standing riders shuffled around, equalizing the gap between themselves and everyone else.
None heard that the lines written for Hercule Poirot were delivered with a proper English tone. Nor did they care that the questions from her daughter were born of a place much closer to Kensington and Prospect Park than Kensington and Hyde Park.