Brooklyn by Michael Leddy
The prettiest girl I ever saw
was sipping Hoffmanís through a straw, give or take
a word. Right from the can.
A tree grows in that can, in the nervous house
I live in, itís transparent as soda.
In a nearby city,
make that nearly. Kids, itís nearly dinner.
Life (howís that?) is amply confounding with its pageant of clutter
and impenetrables. Here come two now: a lake-effect snow and a
hot dog with Coney Island sauce. Behind the snow is Godís
everlasting clout, which doesnít bother to explain itself. Behind
the dog (literally) is a dineresque interior: ashtray, ketchup, salt
and pepper, a waitress in pink and green. This is Godís diner, but
Iím an atheist, and I donít believe in clutter. (I must empty the
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