Dear Glue-Sniffing Man by the 15th St. F Station,
We have been here together for 21 years; this is our street. This is the street that raised me and the one that you have selected, of all the Brooklyn streets, to come home to. You used to raise your paper bag of white-bottled glue to me in a faint gesture of hello when I was a kid each time I ran past, playing my city-kid version of subway-capture-the-flag, and you still do. Now, in a sort of salute, a faint “cheers” if you will — a way of saying, “I’m glad that something about this corner means home to the both of us”.