King of Brooklyn

Surely, the racket thunders on.
Muted only by the nodding of my bejeweled
head as I drift to sleep near the steamy
pond in Prospect Park. Antelopes are brought
to the great lawn and left there to play
amid the toddlers and the cops. Purple candy
is strewn on the sidewalk, but I can't
have any because I have the sugars. In the
morning, a medallion of sun rises over
the borough of churches and lobs honey light
on the brownstones. Walk into any store and feel
at ease among the swift and dutiful cashiers.
Smiling faces have been reinforced with duct tape.
Nothing is disgraceful, everything is raw
and charming; allowing for the luxurious blare
of bird songs over the roar of traffic.
At the end of the day, everyone is fucked in, folded down,
and seriously contented with the swell of dusk.