Breadcrumb #684

KOSCINA RENAUD-TATE

Never quiet
No street is silent
On the porch
With my head in the clouds
Sweet scents of summer
The warm touch of the wind
Gives me life
When I’m near death
Revives me
A place I know too well
A porch that holds many stories
My safety blanket 

Fire hydrants without the cap
Children skipping through
Forceful waters
A hot summer’s day
Laughter overtakes the block
Smells of charcoal burn my nose
Mr. Softee sings to me
Oh to be a Brooklyn kid again 

The sweet sounds of the steel pan
Hastily creeps throughout the parkway
Bright and colorful feathers perfectly placed
Massive headdresses and skimpy costumes
They dance, jump, and hop
It’s a celebration
A poof of powder takes me away 

Venturing out of the borough
I hop in a dollar cab
Tightly packed like sardines
I roll down the window
Brownstones line the street
Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing
Blasting Hot97 from a brownstone’s stoop
These streets are always on the move
The Jamaican accents linger in the air
As reggae blares over the speakers
Sharp turns and honking horns
Speed demon drivers
I finally arrive 

Hot and muggy underground
Swarms of people anxiously wait
The 2 train screeches to a halt
The announcement plays
Flatbush Avenue Brooklyn College 

Where to?
Manhattan or the Bronx?
Staten Island or Queens?
These four complete the five
A quick visit with an undecided agenda
Friends or shopping
Sightseeing or lunch 

I abandon the porch
But I always return
To the place I fell in love with
My birthplace
My home
The Brooklyn kid
Lives in me

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