Sad Girl on an Uptown Train

Sad Girl on an Uptown Train

It was just

another subway

Monday morning

as the city and I

shook off

the weekend.

The rustle

of newspaper

hide and seek

was muted

by my headphones

and the steady click

of staccato thumbs.

She wedged in

from the 28^th Street

platform, wrapped

in wool and leather,

her hair tousled

by an unfair wind.

The sorrow she wore

did not go well

with her Louis Vuitton

so I painted a smile

on her face with my eyes,

and loved her all the way

to 77^th Street.

SMG

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

The Lies We Tell

The Lies We Tell
She smiled and commented
on the beautiful foliage
as we wound through
the hills of western Jersey.
The landscape, splattered
and spread out before us,
like a discarded artist’s drop cloth.
The once green countryside
had turned to saffron, apricot,
sienna, and apple-red.
I continued to drive, in silence,
as she waited for my agreement.
I couldn’t see beauty as I stared
out at the harbinger of winter:
Soon the kaleidoscope of leaves
would shrivel and be replaced
by legions of brown stickmen;
the rolling hills covered
in a death shroud of white.
She looked over and repeated
“Isn’t it lovely?”
As I turned, I caught my reflection;
I could see it was late summer
and October was approaching.
“Yes, it’s beautiful” I replied.

SMG

Flight to Boca

Flight to Boca

God flew south last week
and left the city in tears.
The fall of man is a season
to prepare for the bitter days
of discontent that lie ahead.

The shrieks of children at play

in Central Park will be replaced
by the rustle of dead leaves
and the bleak quiescence
of winter’s inevitable return.

Animated steam ghosts
rising from cracked streets
will dance in celebration,
released from the obscurity
of the warm days gone by.

The pace of pedestrians
once easy and unhurried
will quicken against the wind
as scarves replace bright eyes
and effortless smiles.

The blue skies of September
will fade to December grey.

The night will push on the edges
of daylight, until the old man

grows tired and God books

a return flight into JFK.

SMG

Walk in the Park

Walk in the Park

Leafless
black-brown
branches
cut across the sky
like cracks
in the canopy.
They strobe light
the December sun
along the brittle white path.
Central Park
in winter
is staid
and sorrowful;
the cold empty heart
of New York.

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