Where the Subways Go Above Ground in Brooklyn

by J. Daniel Taylor

The rocks are hot along the East River
Below hazy skies sent from Jersey Traffic.
Pigeons peck at pieces of detritus,
Walking calmly by pedestrians passing
Through the park during their allotted lunch
Hour. A girl with a strange frame —
As if her ribs fused with her hips —
Hands a friend an apple as an offal gust
Wafts in from over the water.
Children throw stones into the effluvia.