An overhead subway creeps
between brownstones. Sharp shadows
like falling venetian blinds cut across
the moving cars. From the street below
steam pipes belch gray mists. Visions
of the city become abstracts of other visions;
seldom is there a clear choice.
Late night diners with doors open and tables
full of lively hand conversations, holds the
pillows of sleep.
At 2am, gravity pulls in all directions. A few
stragglers follow street lights. Someone
remarks there’s a barrel full of memories
Under the 3rd street bridge.
Roger Singer 