Since I arrived in Brooklyn two + years ago. . .

There is a number . . .

Of bicycle miles pedaled between the Hudson River and the Atlantic Ocean.
Of shoe sole scuffed-off onto the streets of all the boroughs.
Of hours parading and protesting.
Of hundreds of subway miles ridden.
Of books read and theater performances attended.
Of birds and squirrels seen going on about their lives.
 
Of cats petted, and dog owners seen carrying plastic bags of shit.
Of kids heard screaming, panhandlers begging.
Of nose encounters with flowers, trees, stale urine, garbage, bleach.
Of musicians seen in concert, in the streets, on the subways.
Of preachers proselytizing, and mosque prayers broadcast into the streets.
Of different languages heard every day.
Of rainstorms, rainbows, snowflakes, dazzling cloud displays.
Of bus rides and cab rides.
Of being amused by "chosen" people, "saved" people, drunk people.
Of colors that the Empire State building has donned.
Of sad days, momentous, joyous days, and days that ran away hardly noticed.
Of movies seen at home and on the big screen.
Of connections, disconnections, births, and deaths.
Of parties attended, baseball games seen.
Of days relaxing on the beach, in the parks.
Of face hairs shaved off, nails polished, sneezes handkerchief'd, on into realms of TMI.
Of people met, people passed unnoticed, people ignored.
Of slices of pizza, Vietnamese coffees, onion bagels.
There is a number.
Nobody is counting, but there is a number.