The City

New York City

Between her and me, it was certain
That a poem would mean curtains
For my attempts of its capture,
Of her nature and demeanor

Many have tried before
To romanticize New York
And while they have failed
I shall also humbly trail!

Beauty in Rust or rustic charm?

I am in love with her cast iron ugliness
And dare not embellish
A city that needs no exaggeration
Or the emptiness of tourism

Where were her attempts to dress up?
Or to clean up? I wondered
As Immigrants ambled on crowded streets
As Chanel boots clambered.

Spot a Flat Iron?

Tourists still come, though.
To witness her vastness!
While she carries on oblivious
Needling traffic and express elevators

I tremble with anticipation
Of stolen kisses
As I walk her claustrophobic streets
Amongst those monstrous buildings

Yellow taxis dart like hell’s angels
Fitting, it may seem
In a city of darkish alleys
And lush green parks

And so the ants march

Her citizens show a definite grit
And the grime from crowded subways
But they walk with broader shoulders
Even the eighty year old Chinese wonders

I wanted to tell her
That it’s invigorating
This adulterous reality of her dirty streets
The sexuality of her expensive black suits

Give me your tired departed souls… perfect!

And that I was ready
To give her my tired departed soul
Aboard the Staten Island ferry
Or on the southern Island of Manhattan

There is a distinct emptiness
Where her two pillars stood
There is now an unsaid silence
Where there was once a rumble

Brooklyn Bridge is certainly not falling

Instead the Brooklyn Bridge
Shines, as it always did
For artists and photographers alike
And perhaps, specially, for me?

Then as the crowds disperse
On a lighted noisy Times square
I peacefully settle
Under the shade of the St. Patrick’s Cathedral

The inherently broad shouldered New York

Contemplating, if she will ever know
Of my adoring doting behavior?
Knowing perhaps fully well
That she is much too New York to care