CONCRETE FIELDS

They’ve ruptured everything serene and clean;
Wrought ironed as monstrosities
Shrinking nature into plots of property –
Myopic of concrete cracks in the aftermath of winter
And more sterile and devoid of life
Than any cemetery
Where starlings peck at flowers and berries
In a natural harmony with nature;
A place where those who died
Revel in the company of those who’ve joined them later on…
There are older homes,
Bid for at the highest prices,
By those who see acres trimmed of trees which never grow
And crew cut grass which drives off cats and strays
Honing in to find a secret place to go….’
They’re not missed much at Christmas
When snow blankets every landscape much the same;
But at Easter,
The Holy Ghost pulsing in the browning eastern sky
Reveals what we have done
And the choice we’ve made
To languish in the morning
Very much alone.

Ken Siegelman
Brooklyn Poet Laureate