Riding the Q train to Brooklyn, returning to my roots,
I look out the window; a glorious sun paints the sky
turquoise, and the sea a glittering mirror of blended
blues and greens and majestic gold.
And I listen to the susurrations of the sea in my
dreamscape as the Q hisses and growls, bellows
and shrieks; the antediluvian train rushes forth
and stops suddenly as it struggles to cross the
The Q’s on fire beneath the August sun. It chugs
along the seething tracks to a primeval Brooklyn,
as pristine as the whooper swan sailing above
Iceland and across the globe;
Cygnus cygnus soars high in the heavens and
across Space and Time,
vanishing in a snow-covered memory.
Riding the Q train to Old Brooklyn, I long to go
home; I want to disappear in the deep snow of
my youth; it’s winter there for the boy I used to
be. Mother sits with him and feeds him grand
I crave Old Brooklyn where Mother died too
soon. Her ghost sits with the apparition of
I long to return. But I can’t. Or can I? The Q
is about to enter DeKalb Avenue, the first
station in Brooklyn.
I close my eyes and fall asleep. I dream about
the whooper swan. We vanish together.