Brooklyn, A Strange Bay at Brighton Beach by Myron Ernst

For only a day
                                                 my father lost his mind.
                                                 He listened to a man
                                                 with a thin,
                                                 dark moustache
                                                 in a low black car. It took us away
                                                 from Bay Three-- my bay,
                                                 where the warm waves
                                                 were low and tame,

                                                 to a bay numbered Sixteen,
                                                 not a half-mile away
                                                 where the darker water
                                                 rose and stood.
                                                 It rose and stood,
                                                 too deep, too blue,
                                                 almost black, like the blue
                                                 that waits off Iceland.


		Myron Ernst
		Brooykln, A Strange Bay at Brighton Beach
		For only a day my father lost his mind. He listened to a man with a thin, dark moustache in a low black car. It took us away from Bay Three-- my bay, where the warm waves were low and tame, to a bay numbered Sixteen, not a half-mile away where the darker water rose and stood. It rose and stood, too deep, too blue, almost black, like the blue that waits off Iceland.
		Myron Ernst B.A. Brooklyn College of the City University of New York '60. M.A. French and Italian. University of Iowa. Formerly taught French and Italian. Retired co-owner/diector of private Montessori preschool. His poems have appeared in: Chicago Review, Hollins Critic,Midstream Magazine, Poetry East, West Branch, among others.
		© Myron Ernst All Rights Reserved