Morning in New York
Tangerine and pink tendrils Creeping, No… Pulling themselves With varied and slender outstretched fingers, Unfurling like ivy, Up and over Dusty concrete hulks And lightly oxidized Wrought iron monoliths Standing as monuments To human ingenuity, Either In praise Or defiance Of man’s unwillingness To yield To the weight Of the sky. Coffee cups rattle And clang; Some in the hands Of weary travelers Fighting To colonize Just one tiny square For themselves On the back of the metal Dragon That daily roars From Queensbridge To 42nd St,
Outstretched And begging for just enough Change To feed bellies Or addictions… Whichever Growls loudest That day. Lovers Roll over Under covers, Struggling To free themselves From the inertia That seductively bids them To stay languid And prone, Basking in each other’s Scent, Ignoring the potential For an angry boss And a lost paycheck. The birds Put on a show To shame all shows, Their song A lovelorn love song To the sun, Bidding it to Return, Then changing At the first sight Of the sun’s sweet face To a song Of exaltation, Singing her praises, Causing her to Rise higher And shine brightly Like she has never Shone before.