| on the walk |
| across the Brooklyn Bridge |
| I lost the group |
| when they turned off |
| and I |
| hurrying to catch them |
| on the Bridge |
| somehow passed them |
| walking by myself |
| arriving in Brooklyn |
| ahead of them all |
| |
| sometimes you think |
| you've fallen behind |
| when you're just somewhere else |
| on the road— |
| you think you're lost |
| when you're already |
| found— |
| |
| perhaps at the point |
| of the Bridge |
| where you first see |
| Liberty— |
| or when you are no longer |
| on one island |
| but not yet |
| on the other |
| |
| you're afraid you've lost |
| the way |
| when the way is right |
| before you |
| winding back |
| to where you began: |
| |
| the child rocking |
| in the cradle— |
| the boy standing |
| on the beach— |
| the man swimming |
| toward the shore— |
| swimming still |
| |
| —Joe Shakarchi |
