A changing Brooklyn, part one
239 Carroll Street is the one.
The one with the statue of the smiling jester,
that by the movement of men,
became a stunted symbol of a time that was taken away.
Full of life in the past but
forever encased in a lifeless carcass in the present
His humility huffed and puffed around the small courtyard.
Putting on a show but pleading at the same time.
Subjected to watch
our empire of dust whisk away into the wind
created by continuing construction.
Suspended in a similar vein,
his arm was made to spin around the adjacent lamp post
with a top that betrayed,
becoming more tilted and tainted
as time took its turn.
Even so,
embellishing the dirty air with a million little laughs
did nothing against the incoming money
that was exchanging hands every day.
and as much as he thought
that his presence actually meant something,
Nobody could hear the clownman
over the power drills.