Untitled #8

Here, they greet Brooklyn mornings
with a tall cup of foamy coffee,
in an intolerant belly
that rumbles and grumbles
along with the steel rolling cage.

Below, the water keeps rising
we can barely hold it back
as it seeps and floods the tunnels
causes delays and detours.
Where did we leave our wings?

Today, tourists sit on double-decker bus
looking down upon the natives
in the ritual of caffeine-on-the-run.

Tomorrow, our streets will run with water
the bulls would have long since drowned
in the white-wash of financial matters.
An imperfect reflection of the sea devouring
our coastline and shifting seeds to higher ground.


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