in the city for a few days,
the madness even intensified,
as the United Nations privileged,
dine, wine and pontificate their
global prejudices, and review their fav
expensed account, French restaurant's
contribution to global relations warming
so the inveterate veterans of this congestion+++,
take to sidewalks with gusto, for motorized
transport is suboptimal, and its hot 'n sticky,
humid and putrid as garbage collection gets
suspended....
which leads to my bonus source of inspiration,
walking among the pro's I hear, cannot help but
overhear, for din of shouting is de rigeur, snatches
of sidewalk intimacies. which cannot go unheard!
and must be taken as given
kid, kid you not, what you may overhear is
plots of lover revenge, deathbed confessions,
why she is sleepingwith her boyfriends brother,
(better lover) but the brother, the older, better jobber,
has the oolala
moola-la!
here, is where, I tell you, that ****** these tidbits
from their lips, and weave and spun for the fun,
into a tapestry Whitman worthy, he too walked the
broadways, the loading docks, admired the feathered
peacocks of Fifth Ave., turning it into great poetry
but a single line of dialogue rings loudest in my memory,
it was a silence that suspended the grime and rhyme of
all the surrounding noisy distractions, when she hears the
man, say matter of factly, the second opinion confirmed the
diagnosis, and yes, the cancer had spread, and options now,
very limited...
the woman. stumbles a step, and says nothing, but grasps
his upper arm, slow soft, bring ing up higher and higher,
till it almost impedes the man stride, and he looks upon her
face with kind eyes, and winces~grimaces~as sympathetic
as possible
a wispy smile, for he is acknowledging that she, will bear the
brunt, the in coming cold front, while he rides the storm, for
as long as itis permitted…
though the streets are crowded,
I believe I am the-only one, proximate
enough, to be the sole witness of said
tapestry's exchange, and I am, blooded,
chest concaving, my temples beat a throbbing
beating, and the swirl, of ebb and flow of
pedestrian's goings, separate me from them,
as they plunge ahead, but the've turn left, and all I see
as they dream away from-me, is the-arm, her arm,,
squeezing his, as if that lock, could somehow prevent
a storm, hurricane, tornado, the tidal wave that is
now engulfing them…and then the gone… and I am left
bereft, for there is no poetry to quote, must go un spoke,
and crawl to a vest pocket garden bench,
slumped
and stumped
this thing why me,
was I the one chosen for this knowing, and the
answer comes quick, this a warning reminder,
to find her, woman,
mine, and clutch her arm-too tight,
and utter words to her nonsensical,
but that comfort me, in an
inexplicable wordless way…
UN Week, 2025, Midtown Park Avenue