Dusk Over Pier A Park, Hoboken

A mother bird nests in the bowed eves;

Her young dead on the ground below.

 

The reddening dusk etched and balanced

Above the palisades—the sky pressed down,

Distanced.

 

The clamor of the city’s rattle

Squeezes tight the pulsing blood:

Heals click, flip-phones clack closed,

The last commuter train bumps to a stop

With the weight of the city inside.

 

A girl and her brother dart ahead, snapping;

Mom and dad stroll close behind, silent.

When she gets older, the girl loses her brother.

She watched the tower fall with him in it

From the same spot they darted ahead, snapping.

 

Two derelict men kneel down,

Lower their faces to a fresh spill

Of water on the floor, rest on their elbows,

And lap the cool water.