A changing Brooklyn, part one

239 Carroll Street is the one.

The one with the statue of the smiling jester,

that by the movement of men,

became a stunted symbol of a time that was taken away.

Full of life in the past but

forever encased in a lifeless carcass in the present

His humility huffed and puffed around the small courtyard.

Putting on a show but pleading at the same time.

Subjected to watch

our empire of dust whisk away into the wind

created by continuing construction.

Suspended in a similar vein,

his arm was made to spin around the adjacent lamp post

with a top that betrayed,

becoming more tilted and tainted

as time took its turn.

Even so,

embellishing the dirty air with a million little laughs

did nothing against the incoming money

that was exchanging hands every day.

and as much as he thought

that his presence actually meant something,

Nobody could hear the clownman

over the power drills.