So days done.
Rush to crosstown shuttle,
eight horses, twenty men,
then to west side express,
of no romantic journeys,
elbow the legless man on roller skates,
a seat…. Quick…. Beat ya, lady.
Whew. Do my feet ache.
Don’t meet the eyes of standing women,
indignant as virgin martyrs,
then scan fellow travelers.
The old man in baggy trousers,
alpine hat and paper bundles;
sophisticated lady,
hair by Frank Lloyd Wright;
typists chewing gum;
two insolent young hoods;
lower case executives,
chained to shiny black attaché cases;
the thinker, sneakily peering
from east of his eyelids.
Are we appreciating him?
Rock across the bridge,
as fragile as our days.
The last Manhattan lights
ominous, magical, leading
to the rude serpent mouth
of gaping Brooklyn.
Maiden of the dark eyes
and slender legs,
at whom I stare
and who stares at me,
if I speak,
your little red mouth,
candied and erotic,
will bray some strange dialect,
leaving me more remote
than any outcast.
So I sit,
head nodding in kindred doze
with city pilgrims huddling close,
drowsing thoughtless, drained.
I awaken. No. Three more stops.
So many staring sightlessly,
or cowering behind books and papers.
Last wistful look, farewell dark-eyed maiden,
gone forever in our millioned hive,
farewell.
