Posted tagged ‘New York City poem’

Draft (NYC)

November 20, 2015

Draft (NYC)

I think as I walk through midtown Manhattan that I should email you my manuscripts
just in case I get shot or blown up tomorrow.

Shoulders filter the night; I weave slightly (in part because of thick black shoes meant to roll worn feet
into a next step)
even as I pass a guy whose face shows the shadowed hollows of someplace south or east of the Mediterranean, depicted in the news lately as scary hollows–

yet, I feel pretty sure that if I should stumble he would catch me by the arm–

a little behind him, two policeman (each of different ethnicity) and half a block behind–these being tense times– two more–

but also because the sidewalk’s really uneven here, slabbed.

Still, I stick with the cracks, having seen a rat on the smoother path I was about to turn down, a curve through the Park (supposedly safe now
in the dark)–

I want to digress here into a story about a pregnant raccoon in this same Park, how I happened onto her one bright day and, in yesterday’s dim, her silhouette, possibly–but it is too long a story for this piece–even though there is something somehow endearing
about a city that harbors pregnant raccoons in its parks (they get rabies shots) despite
the rats–

this city where also hang Matisses blue as sky or sea dancing
and where in the high glass ahead float paned wedges of reflected neon, blue
as a Matisse.

I feel rather sorry for you trying to figure out what to do with the manuscripts–

me who did not myself give them time, yet who still wants them saved,
who wants them (so much) to walk about in the best way manuscripts can, that is, holding
someone’s hand, in the way a book might hold mine now,
but for the night,
holding that person’s hand through street and room, through comfy chair
and scary hollow, showing that person (if desired)
the silhouettes of pregnant raccoons–and more–a woman
the only need
wedges of light–really, any color
will do–

A very odd draft poem for Corey Rowley’s prompt on With Real Toads about the hearts desire(right this minute.) 

The pic was actually taken by me a few weeks ago, showing light shows that were done before the NYC Marathon–not the neon squares of glass I write of, but cool pics, I thought.  All rights reserved. 

Hep Cats On New York City Morning – 11th day of National Poetry Month

April 11, 2012


New York City Morning

It was grey that day
on Broadway and Dey,
greyer still beneath the scaffolding,
where a guy stood not even half-holding
a cat, that sat
upon his head.

It was not a Seussian feline,
(you know, the Cat-in-the-Hat kind),
but a cat worn as a hat, rather like
a stovepipe (without
the Lincoln hype) and
with fur, of course,
and purr (I assume)
and a tail instead
of a brim.

the guy didn’t hold on to it at all–
though the cat was two feet tall,
when seated–which he was
there was really no room
for him to stand
on the guy’s head.

The guy did stead-
y the cat, shifting shoulders and weight
in a levered stand-still  gait,
a no-step dance of balancing.

But it looked precarious–
hidden claws nefarious–
also heavy–given the
size of the cat hat.

I looked, but kept moving up Broadway,
heading, as I do that time of day
to my subway stop,
not stopping to talk to the guy,
or to his cat either, this being,
after all, New York City.

This is my poem for the 11th day of National Poetry Month.  (It was inspired  by all the New York City poems posted lately by Claudia Schoenfeld and Brian Miller of dVerse Poets Pub. And also by the guy on Broadway with the cat on his head.  Unfortunately, my battery was dead so I did not get a photo.)