Lexington Express
These steel boxes: they shriek on iron wheels
breakneck stops on iron sleds they go:
Thump, thump, thump
Relentless like an old odd couple in a hurried and harried tryst
(They only have minutes before they rush back to their desks)
These cars, these seats, these desks, these bars
Are but transient vessels to even transient desires.
They really belong in the bowels of the earth because
The sun above is too bright for them.
The clouds are too quiet for their insistence.
One car opens and closes her doors, a swift parting
Then she leaves with an electronic voice, without passion
And in her wake, are wisps of newspapers flying in ragged ways
A thousand leftover cigarettes lie naked and cold
In even colder, darker pools of spit and rain, below.
Steel and rock and water, below.
---
Fifth and Forty-second
Gothic crowns on brownstone boxes: that is Manhattan seen from the streets.
Peeking in between: the water towers, exhausts, ventilation ducts, pigeons and street lights
Gleams, the polished hubcab head, the Chrysler - a gaudy shimmering insult to the sky.
Her sister, the Empire State, stands blocks away, framed by a cloud that hopes to
Look like an oversized gorilla begging for a fight with a biplane and some drastic and epic fall.
Why, with all these behemoths and giants, of steel, brick and glass - Why do I see nothing at all?
Nobody waits for the lights to change, they charge into the fray
Hands extending against the bullish buses and careening cabs, an uneven street fight!
Suddenly snow falls and snow dies, settling on the pavement and swept
Into dirty mounds, long sierras of sleeping, tarry ice: like a homeless person wrapped in futility.
Waiting for the day to disappear. There is indignity in being moved out so better
Dissolve than be evicted.
These are battlefields for fighting, dreaming, cursing, chilling, crooning for money.
No pilgrims here, only visitors with cameras pointing up to the sky.
Look up, look up, New York: you can't help it.
The asphalt is ugly, the crossings even uglier: ignore, forget, stay away from gazing at the earth.
There is nothing there: there is no heartbeat there. Only warmth, smelling curiously, of rubber.
These steel boxes: they shriek on iron wheels
breakneck stops on iron sleds they go:
Thump, thump, thump
Relentless like an old odd couple in a hurried and harried tryst
(They only have minutes before they rush back to their desks)
These cars, these seats, these desks, these bars
Are but transient vessels to even transient desires.
They really belong in the bowels of the earth because
The sun above is too bright for them.
The clouds are too quiet for their insistence.
One car opens and closes her doors, a swift parting
Then she leaves with an electronic voice, without passion
And in her wake, are wisps of newspapers flying in ragged ways
A thousand leftover cigarettes lie naked and cold
In even colder, darker pools of spit and rain, below.
Steel and rock and water, below.
---
Fifth and Forty-second
Gothic crowns on brownstone boxes: that is Manhattan seen from the streets.
Peeking in between: the water towers, exhausts, ventilation ducts, pigeons and street lights
Gleams, the polished hubcab head, the Chrysler - a gaudy shimmering insult to the sky.
Her sister, the Empire State, stands blocks away, framed by a cloud that hopes to
Look like an oversized gorilla begging for a fight with a biplane and some drastic and epic fall.
Why, with all these behemoths and giants, of steel, brick and glass - Why do I see nothing at all?
Nobody waits for the lights to change, they charge into the fray
Hands extending against the bullish buses and careening cabs, an uneven street fight!
Suddenly snow falls and snow dies, settling on the pavement and swept
Into dirty mounds, long sierras of sleeping, tarry ice: like a homeless person wrapped in futility.
Waiting for the day to disappear. There is indignity in being moved out so better
Dissolve than be evicted.
These are battlefields for fighting, dreaming, cursing, chilling, crooning for money.
No pilgrims here, only visitors with cameras pointing up to the sky.
Look up, look up, New York: you can't help it.
The asphalt is ugly, the crossings even uglier: ignore, forget, stay away from gazing at the earth.
There is nothing there: there is no heartbeat there. Only warmth, smelling curiously, of rubber.
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