The Brooklyn I Knew.

239 Carroll Street is the one.

The one with the statue of the smiling jester,

that by the movement of men,

became a stunted symbol of a time that was taken away.

Full of life in the past but

forever encased in a lifeless carcass in the present

and his humility just huffs around the curted courtyard.

Subjected to watch

our empire of dust whisk away into the wind

created by continuing construction.

Suspended in a similar vein,

his arm was made to be around a lamp post

with a top that betrays,

becoming more tilted and tainted

as time takes its turn.

Even so,

embellishing the evacuated air with a million little laughs

did nothing against that other flushed fool’s truth

that swelled in size every day from his own words.

And as much as he would have liked,

the clownman couldn’t tell

that his moxey didn’t hold any meaning

until it was too late.