That bridge, just out of Brooklyn
returns, in redux, REM encore,
different actors, same stage,
same old wilted roses.

With a different playwright, however,
it’s no mere recreation,
it's art, like Picasso’s eccentricity
and hearing alternative rock for the first time.

I swear, there was a conscious sighing,
it had my voice, and felt mutual relief,
twins, bound at the umbilical
through astral plane commemoration.

I remember running, first and foremost,
from the protests, and the prejudice,
fighting through the saw blades
and girders, hearkening to games of yore.

Parallel to all of my troubles,
running side by side, in dead heat,
a race, nay, a battle for my heart,
the sash of victory, never in sight.

White out, scene transition,
and front seat murmurings I can’t describe,
the plush gifts I’d been given,
had already taken my every syllable.

Who had I helped?
Where had this generosity come from?
I did not know, but for once in my life,
I felt of use, to someone, somewhere.