Brooklyn Bridge

Observing the universe in a puddle of water,

Ganesha sacrifices his right tusk

To write down a bevy of words

In order to analyze them.

“In many traditions around the world,” he says,

“A mole on the foot means one is destined to travel.”

He suddenly turns to me, his expression grave.

“If that’s the case, then what does a mole on the brain represent?”

And it’s as if I’m falling…


The digital clock

Atop the building across the river reads 4:45 am

As my weary soul traverses the Brooklyn Bridge.

Quiet, churchlike,

Its gothic arches, stone towers,

And spider-web of cables

Call to mind the years that have elapsed

Since it first spanned the East River.

Behind me, the buildings of Manhattan

Glisten and gleam

Like thousands of jewels stacked atop one another.

I picture old Graybeard

On the deck of a ferry,

Crossing this same stretch of tributary

Well over a hundred years ago,

His mind everywhere at once

And his spirit one with the whole of time.


Across the dark water,

The Q Train rattles along the Manhattan Bridge,

Its rhythm syncopated

Like a Duke Ellington tune,

Bringing me back to the present

While the faintest of light in the eastern sky

Creates a kaleidoscopic collage of color

Reminiscent of a Mondrian painting.


And with the dawn, I am reborn.

© Chester Sakamoto