The first night in Brooklyn is tying your Windsor knot with doo-wop. It is the basic stuff. Hello, neighbor. Welcome to the neighborhood. It sings, Carry me home, boat. Bob me around the street corner, head. Lay me home upon the waters. Sound the dog whistle, Captain.
The second night in Brooklyn is when Flannery O’Connor breaks the air conditioning, shirts are ripped, and we end up tangled like bridges, sharing rivers and notes on comedy, the future, ideal picnic composition, which states we have passed through and when, where our silence steps in tandem and we listen to the neighbors, who sing, Teach me a time where the hands of pianists stuffed into cuckoo clocks would pop forth every hour to pose on the 7 and 9, the 12 and 6, the eight and the three …
Come away with me, feistball. Darling whose language I don’t have to name, invent or reinvent, come away with me through morning walks, floating hamburger smoke and the rumbling subway caw-caws migrating north and south for micro-winters and summers. Let me compliment the mess you are every morning.
Our pores are hungry for this country and yours, friends and lovers-to-be. Will you come away with us? We are good travelers. We fast, we stroll, and we bring maps that we snatched from the Library of Congress. (They’re not AAA, but assume it will do us some good.) 
Our radio will brag for us, say, We know patience, we know impatience, we know how to dance politesse — out-Oxford Comma Simon Schama. We know how to weather storm-clouds latching themselves onto our backs, trying to bend us double. To this, we say what we’ve always said: I will find you, freedom. Check your doorbells, because they’ll be the first and last thing you hear before we blast through door after door after door after
Monologue: (3)
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