A Walk To Randall's (from "Common Terror")

 

We took the dogs for a walk

over the Triboro Bridge. 

Never walked over it before, 

didn't know there was a pedestrian path. 

 

The caravan of senseless of purposeful travel 

whipped up an industrial wind, 

which rose and fell, 

settling near the suicide signage 

and the death phone. 

 

Whenever a big tractor-trailer 

rumbled over the concrete 

and the steel-connecting bits, 

the whole suspension jostled up and down, 

like a nauseating carnival ride. 

 

She held Frida 

and I steered Henry 

as we proceeded along the skinny walkway, 

keeping as much to the right as possible 

so as not to get side swiped 

by the oncoming and overtaking cyclists. 

 

At just about the midway point

we approached the low protecting wall, 

the other side 

of which is air 

and potential infinity. 

 

I tried to be calm, 

gripped Henry's leash with increased effort 

and strained my fingers. 

Then he popped up like a pony 

and scratched one of his fingernails 

on the wall. 

I quickly reset him 

and struggled, with fluttering heart, 

to enjoy a wide open and clear view 

of Hellgate and Randall's Island. 

A beautiful picture 

engulfed by the swirling sound of traffic 

racing over to Manhattan and the Bronx 

from Queens. 

 

She took a few photographs 

with a Zeiss Ikon 

my dad bought for me 

for five bucks

from a dirty guy who 

had it laid out 

behind a sign that read "CHEEP SHIT"

amongst an abundance of other knick knacks

on a coarse blanket on the ground 

in the weather-beaten parking lot 

outside the Belmont Racetrack 

at a swap meet 20 years ago. 

 

We walked around Randall's 

for about an hour 

and looked at the families, 

the runners, the water, the sky, 

the horses in the stable, the looney bin, 

East Harlem, the New York Post facility, 

and the folks at the rehabilitation center. 

 

And then we walked back over to Astoria.