A big blue crane rises up, up, up,
rises belligerently up the Macy’s
building, wants forever to stop
at the Cheesecake Factory for a
one hour wait and pastel cock
tails. The square cafe makes a
lot of noise waking up and the
jukebox is lovelier than you
ever wanted it to be on a day
like today with 150 years of
oohs, ahhs & wows. Otto’s
getting arrested in the subway
for possible terrorism (can’t
videotape without a permit).
Two men write a poem on
the same day (Tim McVeigh
is executed). What comes of
each? We are all reincarnated
inappropriately. I’ve found
this morning in Union Square –
nothing worth writing home
about until the Sudafed
kicks in (“Look, you’ve got
the old kind,” dug lovingly
out of the bottom of his bag).
Somebody’s whistling like
Bing Crosby while a high-
spirited red-jacketed Saturday
morning playboy hoses down
around a trash receptacle; the
city abloom with the clang
of the trolley, afull of morning
joggers and pigeons, agay
with bench kissers and aloft
with dreamy purple flowers
and me.
