At eight the gates slide open

and the power company trucks rumble Pennsylvania

beneath the crisscrossed wires slung

over lofts,

over the Hell’s Angels’ house,

over warehouses empty of labor

to transformers humming

beside the ancient freight track that

threads dented file cabinets and

the broken bricks of crumbled docks and

an old auto dealership sign sunk in

mud announcing the deal of a lifetime in a field

fallow in the minds of realtors

who have their own new rail

cresting Third Street

on a wave rolling from far out

seen by all unstoppable,

only negotiable by

kids who breathe aquatic street lamp glow

and see their way through razor wire

to paint “Night Eyes and Jessie”

upon the metal gates

of Piers 48 and 49.