It might seem strange or excessive to those
who live in snugly quiet little towns
but New Yorkers will understand the throes
that flung a man, still fit at forty, down
some several flights of stairs in underwear,
lithe muscles rippling, kitchen blade loosely bared

It might seem wrong, unjustified, or cruel
as he attacks exposed necks, arms, hands, chests
of hard-working immigrants whose power tools
on Sunday morning hum to provide the best
they can for families young and eagerly
in Brooklyn blossoming and learning to be
Americans
like so many before

One interruption too many. One churn,
One bang, one drill, a rattled jarring clank
too many. “Sad news from Brooklyn,” a voice yearns
for sanity, before the commercial break.
But in pause-time she says what many feel
“This constant noise is too much for to deal.
Are some silent moments not a basic right?
Rich New Yorkers take easy flights
beyond infinitely spinning noise
the rest must submit while it erodes inner joy.”

Of course the police shouted loud and shot
without silencers, their sirens blaring
And so he died next to three innocents caught
inside his worn-out, his broke-down caring
Yes that Light that should’ve known God in him
and his fellows, yes that Light grew too dim
And now the noise rumbles on over the city
A few families mourn; life for them’s less pretty
that’s all that happened
when he went and snapped

And we’ve not even spoken
of music shoved down in
forced on you like a dirty old man
with no right to your private land
stealing your life and shaking your bones
of music you don’t choose that won’t leave you alone

Author: BW
Editor: AW
Copyright: AM Watson