by Brett Rutherford
In my dreams last night,
I attempted to get
to Bayonne, New Jersey.
to Bayonne has no sidewalks.
By train, by bus,
I had to get to Bayonne, New Jersey,
I have never been
to Bayonne, New Jersey.
Woe unto those who dwell
in Bayonne, New Jersey!
Bayonnis and Bayonettes,
your days are numbered!
Whom should I seek
in Bayonne, New Jersey?
Am I to rescue them
or am I the doom
they have dreaded
since the first Bayonne
sunrise greeted them?
Alas for Bayonne, New Jersey!
Do sandwich-sign men
tread the main streets
and announce my coming?
Are there churches
in Bayonne, New Jersey?
Do their bells peal
to warn the citizens
of my arrival? Hands
over eyes, hands over
the ears of the children,
hands reaching for guns,
is their defense adequate
against the moment
I cross the town line
and breathe deep
the chemical fragrance
of Bayonne, New Jersey?
Will ghost flames flare
at the old refinery?
Will the low howl
of tanker horns shake
the port of Bayonne?
The words I utter
will be their undoing.
I am worse
than an unwelcome
immigrant, more
dangerous than a scout
from an off-shore pirate
schooner. I, alone,
asking for nothing,
threaten all.
I have written a book.
Woe to Bayonne,
New Jersey!
