Sleepy Brooklyn by Gary Beck

The streets of time are silent.
Across the expanse of Brooklyn
a midnight silence hangs.
The sly noises of late residents
trying to conceal after-hours wantonness
rasp clumsily on somnolent streets.
The slumbering residential streets echo
dying footsteps of a reckless night wanderer,
returning after his fellows have gone to bed.
The distant blare of a car horn
temporarily stirs rem addicts,
who recede into oblivion.


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