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.
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