View from Brooklyn, New York

I wonder.

I wonder at the people who I meet.

I have seen three women separately losing
their minds at the Court Street Station.

A man, roaring epileptic all over Hanson Place.

Seven Chinese washerwomen with voices
like chimes. Cutting air in marvelous diphthongs.

Old men lifting weak soup to their faces.

Children scraping their knees on hard concrete.

A young man freelanced a rhapsody from cut-out
oil cans in front of Klein's Bargain Center.

An Irish bard, with the balls of a crocodile
and the heart of a hummingbird, tormented me
with dreams of diamonds in the Euphrates River.

I met a black man in the Bickford Cafeteria consuming an entire pumpkin pie while four
young thugs brought in and displayed hot goods.

Two of them were females ... one so high her
eyes rolled to the back of her head, while this
old man kept right on eating his pumpkin pie.

I am astounded by my species.
There is no putting them down.

I wonder most at their fabulous come-backs.