Old New York

Driving in,
The ancient
Rubric,
Downtrodden,
Broken hearted
Dreams
The jaundiced,
Tortured,
Heavy-lipped
Return,
Daily,
Monotonous –
We’ve been
Doing this
For ages
It seems,
We’ve been
Lifting our skulls
Towards the pointed
Building tops
And feeling our bones
Drop to our feet
In cursed self defeat
Growing inward,
Lilting,
All the while quiet,
As we assume
The quilted,
Nested
Respite
Necessary
For survival
And
Written in our blood
Like the historic method
Like the diligent desecration
Of precious, fragile
Choice,
Choking,
the smoke-filled
Back rooms,
Barring the back draft
And
Guarding the safe house
Like an asylum
Built for the sane
Built for the wise
And the holy
While the traffic
Whizzes by
At lightning speed
And the pavement is hot black,
The sky,
Grey and cold,
The old, old
Skyline whispers,
Vespers
For the lusted night,
As millions
Find their cubbies
And count their
Prayers
Their hearts beating
Slowly,
All the while quiet.