Darling Camerado, you expect me to put something in this bag, but
What do I own? In taking the ferry, piloted by Charon
(So the embroidered insignia on his cap said) to come to this new
Brooklyn, the one with the juice bars and the yoga, everywhere yoga,
Tightly-bound bodies electric lunging and stretching toward the ceiling,
I don’t own what you call “yoga pants.” What are those? I have the dungarees on my thighs, 
A broadcloth shirt on my back made by my mother, my old
Galoshes now worn to pieces, replaced by your — you called them “slides,”
Then insisted I follow you to a pink room filled with vibrating chairs, tubs
Beneath them, to soak my toes and make them softer and pinker.
Do the people in the yoga torso poses think of toes so?
My new slides, the “puffer” you lend me — a strange and shiny coat, making my
Torso gleam like the thorax of a dragon fly — you own two “puffers”. Who needs even one?
I own nothing else but an old hat that used to shade my eyes in Brooklyn
Before all the grand towers blocked out the sun. That, and a notebook for my words herein,
The secrets I tell all the world like a minister shouting on the corner of Bedford Avenue — 
Proclaiming some American religion, not one creed or another but brotherhood.

When I say these words, you sing something about purple mountains majesty,
And you laugh at me again, then grab me about the torso and nuzzle my neck,
Call me “cute.” Am I cute? I suddenly feel old, like I’ve misplaced a grand thing.
Before one leaves a stop on the open road, one looks about one for any missing articles
That go back in the bag before heading out. Did I leave anything behind in that old Brooklyn?
Were there shaving articles? An old copy of The Daily Eagle that once wrapped
A freshly-caught shad? A flower I had pressed from the neighbor’s garden?
I find myself uneasy in these slides, suddenly, sniffing for old smells —
That Brooklyn stunk of tobacco, slops, and horse dung, 
The garlic simmering through the new neighbor’s windows, 
The mildew not yet scrubbed away, and here, it smells more chemical but hygienic. 
Why then, do I feel, looking around our bed, Camerado, as if I have misplaced a 
Pocket watch set to a time that no longer ticks? Will you help me look for it
On the floor, in the water closet, in a drawer where you keep your denim?
How can someone misplace a whole Brooklyn? Where could it have fallen?

Anne Babson is the author of four published full-length poetry collections, with a fifth collection, which is about the divisions in America, entitled Crossing State Lines, slated for publication by Unsolicited Press in 2026. Her work has appeared in anthologies and literary journals on five continents.

Appears In

Cagibi Issue 27