Winter in Midtown

Winter Night in Midtown

34th Street

is glazed in sleet

and the reflected lights

of the city dissolve

in the wetness.

New York

has no face

on nights like these,

just umbrella bobs

and collars turned

against the damp

and chill.

The city is a poem

and winter is writing

a dark new verse
not fully understood
until morning reveals

the metaphor

SMG

Leaving New York

Leaving New York

Walking home, 8:20 PM,

Friday evening of another long week;

in New York we measure misery

in Fahrenheit and empty bottles.

One hundred eighty two weekends lost,

and six more to go before I wash off

this subway grime forever.

Wednesday’s snow has gone grey

and the sidewalks are a slush

puddle slalom and controlled slide.

Fresh bottle in hand, I watched

a small boy with his father in tow.

He ninja kicked his way down the sidewalk,

superhero joy on his face, oblivious

to the city and all of its hard edges.

I wonder if I’m really ready to leave.

5:30 AM, Insomnia fueled,

coffee nicotine run in snow flurries

and a razorblade wind.

Hopeful young women,

Saturday nights make-up smeared

by Sunday morning, stumble out of walk-ups

toward the subway steps.

The city spits them out,

back to Jersey and Long Island,

like gum chewed past the point of flavor.

New York is a ponzi scheme of promise,

reliant on wide eyes and fresh blood.

In the shelter of a doorway I lit my first

and watched the sun gradually burn

its way across Twenty Third Street.
I wonder if I’m really ready

for a lifetime of sunsets.

SMG

Pipinoukhe

Pipinoukhe

I blew dandelion fluff
across the city sky last night.
I wanted to cover the sins
and blanket
the dirty sidewalks.

Each steamy breath
carried the seeds
of downy redemption
across metropolis
and into the night air.

The cab drivers
scurried out of the city
and headed to Brooklyn,
sugar cyclones
in their wake.

Pedestrians brushed
off my efforts
and cursed aloud
at the yellow bastards
as they raced for the bridge.

I began to tire
around midnight but
got my second wind
at two, so I kept at it
until just before dawn.

About six, spent,
I nodded off
and had dreams
of the old days;
back before salt,
plows and shovels,
back when the city
was a promise
and its sins
were still forgivable.

SMG

*(Re-post from Drink This Cola)