3405 Gates Place
I was in a strange mood,
hopped in my Pontiac,
kept my foot to the pedal,
and headed downstate
to my old neighborhood
in the Bronx, New York.
I got off the Major Deegan
Expressway near Van Cortlandt
Park, whipped by Woodlawn
Cemetery, onto Jerome Avenue,
took a right at Gun Hill Road,
hung a left on Gates Place,
and parked at the end of the block
in front of 3405, my old apartment
building.
I ran up the four flights of stairs,
and knocked on the door of my
former residence, where I spent
the first seven years of my life.
An aged man, with a gray moustache,
and long hair, an Albert Einstein
look-alike, opened the door. It was myself,
twenty-five years from now.
I asked myself what I was doing
in the apartment I grew up in.
I answered myself by saying,
“You’re here for the end of your
life, back where you started,
in order to complete the cycle.”
I invited myself in, and we sat
down at the old dining room table,
the one from my childhood. We
had a cup of coffee together,
and talked about the future,
and what we would be doing
when we left this life.
I asked myself if I wanted
to stay overnight, but I said
to myself that I had to get back
home. I asked if I could see my
bedroom one last time, before
I left, and I said, “Yes, it would
be alright.” I went to the window,
the one with the fire escape, and
looked out, once more, at Mosholu
Park, and beyond, to DeWitt Clinton
High School and its magnificent dome.
My hair felt as if it could be on fire,
such was the intensity of what I was feeling.
I noticed a flock of birds flying south
for the winter, while at that same moment
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was myself,
letting me know it was time to go.
I turned and stared into my eyes,
looking to see if there was something else
to experience. But there wasn’t.
(Barbaric Yawp)
