Brooklyn by Michael Leddy
The prettiest girl I ever saw
was sipping Hoffman’s 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, it’s transparent as soda.
In a nearby city,
make that nearly. Kids, it’s nearly dinner.
Elite Dinner
Life (how’s 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 God’s
everlasting clout, which doesn’t 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 God’s diner, but
I’m an atheist, and I don’t believe in clutter. (I must empty the
ashtray.)
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