In the restless, listless dog days of Brooklyn, I play a game of crossings as I go. When the walker shines, I stride across the avenues; when the red hand blinks, or stays its amber pulse, I choose: left or right, to veer or to return. And by these guiding lights, I circle bookstores and bodegas, children, joggers, hasidim, until the kiss of dusk. And is this not our way? In steady shine, we march ahead; at halting, incandescent hands, we choose: left or right, to veer or to return— steering by the only stars we’re given.
Thanks to Malcolm for notes on this poem.