The smell of linens
Warmed hot in driers
Lamp post
Stuck with weekend fliers
Rusted out steel on buildings facade
Bustling traffic on Kenmare
I make my way to the Williamsburg Bridge
Over the eastern edge
And back to Brooklyn
No more than a bed
To call my own
The only options are rent
No hopes to own
So our time here is quick
Subtle and sweet
Seeing some familiar
Faces out on the street
The people still hustle
Just as I remember
Checking in 2 months past
September
The city sways easy in Autumn leaves
Until it will soon be our time to leave