Abandoned
They protected New York Harbor
a century ago,
but now sit stripped
of their artillery.
In their place today grow weeds
and roam wildlife, bicyclists, casual strollers,
all warned:
“Cautious. Hazardous Area.
No unauthorized personnel
beyond this point.”
“Extremely Hazardous Conditions.
Area Closed.”
By Fort Hancock in Sandy Hook,
skeletons of armaments erode,
tortoise crawl across paths,
deer stand on the side of roads,
abandoned by the US Army,
left alone by summer sunbathers.
Abandoned they may feel in autumn,
abandoned again they will be in winter.
---
Homeless
The homeless man with the bushy gray beard
pushed the baby carriage
through the lot,
stopping at the sight
of a small black car.
“I ain’t seen one of these
in a long time,” he said.
Minutes later, the man sat down
and put tobacco into a cigarette roller.
He looked up at me,
having stepped out of the black Fiero
and now sipping a cafe con leche,
and he began to speak, clearly.
“My first car was a ’70 Thunderbird.”
With a startled smile, I replied,
“So was mine.”
After a few minutes of conversation
about Thunderbirds, Fieros
and British sports cars,
the homeless man put his roller and cigarettes
into the baby carriage
and began to walk away.
“Have a good day,” he said,
and then paused, and asked,
“Can you spare a few dollars?”
“Sure, I can spare a few dollars
for you,” I replied.
Then I paused, and asked,
“Can you do me a favor?”
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
“Can you pose for a picture
with my car?” I asked.
“Sure,” he replied.
“With or without my carriage?”
“It’s up to you,” I said.
“How ever you want to do it.”
He took a moment
to comb his hair
and brush his beard
before walking over
to the Fiero.
He stood next to the black car
without his carriage,
and posed with his hand
on the roof like he owned it,
just as we did our Thunderbirds
many, many autumns ago.
