Blue hands clapped wildly, as if

applauding the opening night

of a new hit Broadway musical show,

trying to sting them back to life.

Millions of feet puncture holes

in the virgin snow on a New York winters morn,

like a magnificent herd of wilder beast,   

stampeding across the open savannah

of a Central Park, bathed by a fading neon moon.

A few blocks away a xylophone of icicles

cascade from the broken gutter

of a rundown apartment building,

on the corner of East 44^th Street and Maddison.

As the sun seeped through the concrete Redwood’s,

tear shaped droplets wept from the icy face.

As they fall, the film of each watery bead

captures a sequence of stills,

like scenes from a 1930’s movie feature,

before shattering into a thousand broken dreams

on the cold harsh sidewalks of reality.

A shrill scream pierces the noise of swarming passengers

and the hissing of steam train brakes at Grand Central.

A body has been found frozen to the tracks, blue hands.

I guess, his part of New York City sleeps now.

 

©Phil Golding 07/09