The fog has cleared, the sun knifes

between leafless trees and overpasses

on our drive to Manhattan. The mouth

of the Lincoln Tunnel widens

to envelope us in stale air, tentative light.

 

Oh, Tenth Avenue is terrible,

taking us, as it does, to you whose brain

has been breached by your personal Sandy.

 

We always knew it was coming,

something was coming. Still

there was no way to prepare.

Grief, that most predictable skill,

is not perfected by practice.

Today it seems not even improved.

 

Tomorrow they drill into your skull,

probe deep into your brain and snip a piece

of it. We will wait in the dark and feel

our way knowing that whatever we touch

might be a loose wire alive with our history,

pain shooting wherever love resides.

 

Cars wind around the corner queuing for gas.

Con Ed trucks block side streets, restoring power.

Traffic once again crawls through the crippled city.

Flood waters have abated.

Broken wires, fried transformers soon will carry

the clear, precise, coherent messages

I am not sure I want to hear.