Brooklyn is the land of wild garbage.
Drunk parakeets best guard their eggs
because summertime is not enough
to cause one to sing, and summer alone
is not a song since
Campy left town.

The broad sense of this poem
is so narrow as to be a needle
or snake to crawl or slide
beneath the blue hums of sonar, radar,
parasitic television.

The trouble with trouble is compounded by time.
Figures add up and die. Dogs curl up and lie.

The blues keep on coloring though
no matter who has the horn or if the horn does blow.

A tree grows from glass and water,
cool good water, nature's water,
somewhere in Tennesee.

But we like our water here
the way it is in Brooklyn.

- Joseph Weissman