Only the lights from
every vessel of advertisement
warm the streets
and illuminate crushed black velvet skies.
The dayhides behind a
billboard on the West Side Highway,
sleeping,
restingfor a moment
or an eternity for the middle-aged man
huddled on theconcrete steps.
Turbulence peaks
as wind gracefully, but
unsuccessfully tries to
dodge the abstract corners
of the giantslining the packed
streets.

Taxi cab exhaust
fills the air, andchokes the gargoyles
peering upon simplistic
chaos. A brown paper bag isdragged
upon its heels,
never having the opportunity to
rest,
passing famous attractions.
The same people crowding
around, aredressed in black.
New York,
where there's always a song,
a trafficjam,
a place to eat,
a home to wallow,
an asylum for those who dare
to dream.




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By Benedict C., New City, NY












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