Ridgewood
A Poem for the Neighborhood...
RIDGEWOOD
And maybe it's her unexpected beauty.
The way the light filters through the trees
and dances on the pavement, the world
inverted turned inside out, or the way
buses crawl down Myrtle like inch worms,
slowly but surely, her people walking in file,
like marching ants, destinations predetermined,
the rattle of bottles pulled along in carts,
and children of all ages walking behind
their parents like ducklings,
waiting at the crosswalk, the little shuffle of legs
and tugging of arms, begging for the park,
crossing in time to the sound of church bells,
their song, ringing clear, the rumble of the M,
her competing bass—all the birds still singing
and the hiss of open doors.