Manhattan

Faces on noisy, cluttered streets, bare no memory of 9/11.

That retching moment does not press,

Perhaps a footnote marking the beginning of the insanity.

(The wars will need a Homer like hand.)

Like a swiftly flowing river, eating at its banks,

Enjoining the refuse that  moves with the current,

I step into the morning and its motion.

There is far too much to comprehend.

The street allows all to move,

But offers no mercy to the weak.

No time to assist their passage.

They’re obstacles to be moved aside.

The good people of the city recognize

Someone else’s price to keep the pace.

They believe going to the bar

Does not mean they will drink.

Like a well run asylum, it has rank and distinctions:

It produces art necessitated by the Sirens.

People hide in their private spaces.

Kitty Genovese is not their problem.

The street folks, seek shelter and safety,

In their small desperate world,

That most fear to see.

They are a real inconvenience.

So much art, history, music.

Displays beyond imagining.

Street fairs and markets,

Even silence can be found here.

Finding sun under a pristine blue sky

Requires a sojourn in “The Park”

Where the vertiginous giants give way,

In some small measure, to man.

Beyond Columbus Circle

We enter the miracle of Central Park,

Which offers more than a respite 

From the sound and motion.

The grass, trees, waters,

Watch us, offering dreams.

Benches ask for thought, require we tarry.

A chauffeured merchant prince wears slippers,

Believing they crown him a “renaissance man.”

A museum bookstore sells a book named “Fart”

In the children’s section.  All part of the day.

I love the city, for two weeks a year.