Sometimes I miss you.
But not always.
Occasionally I think of you.
But not every moment.
Certain nights I dream of you.
But not often enough.
When I do miss you
I think of the times
I didn’t miss you and wonder
If I’m not missing you
As much as I should.
When I think of you
I remember the occasions
I spent in contemplation of moments
With others and imagine you
Feeling slighted, if only you knew
How few are the moments I think of you.
When I dream of you
I am aware of how very long
It’s been since I’ve seen or heard from you.
This rare apparition of the you
I sometimes miss
And occasionally think of
Triggers a dread feeling:
I have misplaced you.
That you are gone
And it is my fault.
I lost you by allowing my
Thoughts to wander to moments not
Spent with you.
By missing others during the time
When I am not missing you.
By dreaming of flight
Rather than you.
This feeling lasts long after
The dream of you
Has concluded, driving me to miss you
More intensely, to spend longer
Thinking of you, until a night arrives
When I cannot sleep,
Cannot dream my pale imitation of you.
And so I put pen to page,
Attempting to place you safely
Somewhere I can find you
In those dread moments
When I panic that you are lost always.
On the sidewalks in front of the intricate
Facades and arched windows of massive
Apartment houses are piles of bulging plastic bags.
It’s trash day on the Upper West Side.
All of the pretty girls wear high boots
In this part of town, standard-issue-like.
The trees push against the bricks of their planter boxes,
As if attempting to break free and join their brethren in the park a few blocks away. Above the brown brick buildings the sky is all clouds.
No sunlight permeates them, no nourishing water falls from them.
They are plain gray, as lifeless as the concrete.
In the park the dead leaves rustle in a shallow breeze,
The water is dreary brown, the turf hard underfoot.
No birds call. Steaming puffs of breath move along
The paths beside the lake, but there is no sound of conversation, nor of play.
The cloudy exhalations dissipate quickly in that breeze
That rustles the dead leaves – the only sound.
It is but a few minutes past four and yet night is falling.
The lamps are lit, but no life congregates.
In this chill there are no readers, no insects;
There is hollow light and silent cold.
Midtown and the millions of dark windows
High above the cab-crowded streets.
Smokers huddle in doorways,
Tourists gather to gaze upon impossibly expensive baubles
And no bell, silver or otherwise, can be heard.
The towers, the glass and steel ever-erect
Cocks of capitalism, create canyons.
Upon these walls , the horns, voices, sirens echo unrelentingly.
The winter wind is funneled down, cutting through coats,
Whipping scarves every which way.
Coffee cups clatter, caught in the bitter gusts and tossed
From their perches atop the overflowing litter baskets.
Votive candles glitter invitingly in expensive
Restaurants and the churches are all closed.
The waters of the East River swim their languid
Course to the sea alongside the impassive
Obelisk that is the United Nations building.
Across the street in an abandoned playground
A lone man in a tattered coat tips a bottle in a tattered
Brown bag to his lips. He sits on a bench, bathed in beer-hued streetlights.
Noxious fumes from the FDR.
Foul scents from the river.
The river red-wine dark, flowing.
The headlamps white-wine light, unmoving.
Stuyvesant Town, each of its buildings larger than any address uptown.
Combined with Peter Cooper Village, some 50,000 souls
Call this quarter mile square of the island home.
Size is but one part of might, though, and here the facades
Bear no adornment, the windows are simple rectangles
And the grocer and wine shop are
Replaced by the deli and liquor store.
The crowds are just as substantial here, but the full-length
Wool coat has given way to hoodies under beat-up
Leather jackets or layer upon layer of hole-riddled sweaters.
Haircuts seem to have been done by razor, if at all.
Hands are pierced, faces tattooed.
The low, old buildings bear intricate
Spraypaint tattoos, pierced by fire escapes.
Street vendors display gloves, knit caps, but no one’s buying.
The folks down here all already look exactly as they want.
Men in tight jeans shiver alongside
Women in bright coats, all of them sucking smoke.
Whether unaware, uncaring or unbelieving
Of the consequences, they inhale and exhale,
Shaking in the cold, drawing no warmth from their small fires.
Outside the subway stairs there are men
Hawking half-price newspapers. No one buys.
Those that care about the news know the stories by now;
Those that don’t know the news by now don’t care to.
Chinatown keeps expanding.
Little Italy’s three-block toehold remains,
But the smell of hoisin surrounds it.
Lower East Side streets bear the aroma of plum sauce
When once they reeked of nothing whatsoever.
Downtown towers are as depressing
As their Midtown cousins are impressive.
They are equally reminiscent of hard-ons,
But down here it’s the cadaver’s erection.
No windowshoppers, no champagne lounges,
Just security guards, bored and lonesome.
The sky remains implacable.
It is full night and the cloud-cover gives as little
To the moon as it did to the sun.
Winter Wasteland
I. UWS
On the sidewalks in front of the intricate
Facades and arched windows of massive
Apartment houses are piles of bulging plastic bags.
It’s trash day on the Upper West Side.
All of the pretty girls wear high boots
In this part of town, standard-issue-like.
The trees push against the bricks of their planter boxes,
As if attempting to break free and join their brethren in the park a few blocks away. Above the brown brick buildings the sky is all clouds.
No sunlight permeates them, no nourishing water falls from them.
They are plain gray, as lifeless as the concrete.
II. CP
In the park the dead leaves rustle in a shallow breeze,
The water is dreary brown, the turf hard underfoot.
No birds call. Steaming puffs of breath move along
The paths beside the lake, but there is no sound of conversation, nor of play.
The cloudy exhalations dissipate quickly in that breeze
That rustles the dead leaves – the only sound.
It is but a few minutes past four and yet night is falling.
The lamps are lit, but no life congregates.
In this chill there are no readers, no insects;
There is hollow light and silent cold.
III. MT
Midtown and the millions of dark windows
High above the cab-crowded streets.
Smokers huddle in doorways,
Tourists gather to gaze upon impossibly expensive baubles
And no bell, silver or otherwise, can be heard.
The towers, the glass and steel ever-erect
Cocks of capitalism, create canyons.
Upon these walls , the horns, voices, sirens echo unrelentingly.
The winter wind is funneled down, cutting through coats,
Whipping scarves every which way.
Coffee cups clatter, caught in the bitter gusts and tossed
From their perches atop the overflowing litter baskets.
Votive candles glitter invitingly in expensive
Restaurants and the churches are all closed.
The waters of the East River swim their languid
Course to the sea alongside the impassive
Monolith that is the United Nations building.
Across the street in an abandoned playground
A lone man in a tattered coat tips a bottle in a tattered
Brown bag to his lips. He sits on a bench, bathed in beer-hued streetlights.
IV. MH/EV
Noxious fumes from the FDR.
Foul scents from the river.
The river red-wine dark, flowing.
The headlamps white-wine light, unmoving.
Stuyvesant Town, each of its buildings larger than any address uptown.
Combined with Peter Cooper Village, some 50,000 souls
Call this quarter mile square of the island home.
Size is but one part of might, though, and here the facades
Bear no adornment, the windows are simple rectangles
And the grocer and wine shop are
Replaced by the deli and liquor store.
The crowds are just as substantial here, but the full-length
Wool coat has given way to hoodies under beat-up
Leather jackets or layer upon layer of hole-riddled sweaters.
Haircuts seem to have been done by razor, if at all.
Hands are pierced, faces tattooed.
The low, old buildings bear intricate
Spraypaint tattoos, pierced by fire escapes.
Street vendors display gloves, knit caps, but no one’s buying.
The folks down here all already look exactly as they want.
Men in tight jeans shiver alongside
Women in bright coats, all of them sucking smoke.
Whether unaware, uncaring or unbelieving
Of the consequences, they inhale and exhale,
Shaking in the cold, drawing no warmth from their small fires.
V. LES/DT
Outside the subway stairs there are men
Hawking half-price newspapers. No one buys.
Those that care about the news know the stories by now;
Those that don’t know the news by now don’t care to.
Chinatown keeps expanding.
Little Italy’s three-block toehold remains,
But the smell of hoisin surrounds it.
Lower East Side streets bear the aroma of plum sauce
When once they reeked of nothing whatsoever.
Downtown towers are as depressing
As their Midtown cousins are impressive.
They are equally reminiscent of hard-ons,
But down here it’s the cadaver’s erection.
No windowshoppers, no champagne lounges,
Just security guards, bored and lonesome.
The sky remains implacable.
It is full night and the cloud-cover gives as little
To the moon as it did to the sun.
