Bridge Half Gone

They are dismantling, on the other side
of Brooklyn, the Williamsburg Bridge.
After years of crumble, shifts
of workers rush up the erosion

with twenty-four-hour shaking,
shrill cracking, breakdown
assaulting your home one block away.
You’re only in my bed

to get some sleep, aren’t you?
Some respite from metal on metal,
all day rupture, flood lights
at night as the third shift works,

which flood your apartment, too—
no curtains, yellow walls.
You forget your home
in the shell of my sheets

no sound or vibrations
seem to pass through.
In my own bed, you push me
as far away as you can.

Balled in your pod you sleep
as if there is no one
just outside your walls
taking herself apart.

:: Amy Meckler, What All the Sleeping Is For (2002)

A Man on the F Train

A man on the F train
is singing for change. His voice
resonating from some empty cavity of his body
is beautiful, stronger than his legs
bowing past passengers, hand cupped for silver praise.
We have all his money
who avoid his eyes and don’t listen
because singing on the subway is begging
while singing in a club for a ten-dollar cover is success.
Here it’s a dollar-fifty for the ride
and whatever you can spare ‘cause baby it’s cold outside
and I pay him a dollar, thin paper apology
because his voice is beautiful, resonating
in some empty cavity of my body.

:: Amy Meckler, What All the Sleeping Is For (2002)