Poem 1: An Accident on Power Street

An Accident on Power Street

­Rusty scaffolding supports foggy memories

And I try to warn the woman walking beneath it with her child 

Only

I am too late.

The structure moans and screeches.

Its tired legs fold beneath the burden of constructed weight

and I am paralyzed.

Onlookers come to life as they rush to clear the debris

While my feet remain fixed

And my heart trembles with fear.

The woman is pulled from the rubble.

Her child, nowhere in sight,

Must have drowned in the overflowing well

Hidden between the cracks in the concrete.

I trudge down Power Street,

A street that does not exist in the West Village,

and call for help.

A middle-aged officer waddles towards me.

Her badge, shiny and new, glistens

Despite the sky's cloud cover.

I share the devastating news.

She meanders towards the broken structure

And I kneel on spintering boards and cold steel that is not supposed to break.

Only it does,

And I do,

Because I know the child is buried there.

I picture her surfacing from the deep blue puddle that would never be so pristine,

But this is an imaginary street,

And I can no longer claim to know what's real,

Even if the truth drowns in the well I dug.