Garden of Eden

What a profound longing I feel, just this very instant, For the Garden of Eden On Montague Street Where I seldom shopped, Usually only after therapy Elbow sore at the crook From a handbasket filled To capacity. The glossy pastries! Pomegranate, persimmon, quince! Once, a bag of black beluga Lentils spilt a trail behind me While I labored to find A tea they refused to carry. It was Brooklyn. My thirties. Everyone I knew was living The same desolate luxury, Each ashamed of the same things: Innocence and privacy. I'd lug Home the paper bags, doing Bank-balance math and counting days. I'd squint into it, or close my eyes And let it slam me in the face— The known sun setting On the dawning century.