East Village Fugue

Some have passion and Dreams in their hearts That weave in and out Beyond the edges Of small places Their dreams may be only words to some But to them they mean everything. And others, Just as young, Run off With no plans No ideas And never a second thought. The dreamers and the aimless Eventually meet In the East Village Center of the counterculture in New York Birthplace of artistic movements Punk rock The Nuyorican literary movement Site of protests and riots A place of coffee shops and smart pubs Hidden inside tenements and dank basements. And every corner busy. The older residents Are immune to the antics of this place Living in the neighborhood for decades They have witnessed its many changes Speaking a hundred different languages, Accents from the cold climate Of Eastern Europe And warm places in the Islands, Theirs is a smaller world of Cheap apartments And open air markets Where customers Still haggle over prices. In dark places Painted over decades of neglect Old Polish ladies silently pray In empty Catholic Churches Built over a hundred years ago. By Fall the last Summer’s batch of young leave Some with promises Others with regrets But if there is a regularity To the ebb and flow of this place It is the tide Always bringing in the new. On Avenue A, Just off Tompkins Square Park, An old Spanish woman sits In a doorway Watching the artists, radicals and fashion lovers Walk by Anyone who cares to listen Will hear her sing An old lullaby "Close your eyes little ones and sleep And dream while the angels watch over you I will hold your hand And when you wake up in the morning I’ll still be here."