Wo Hop

Walking a crowded single file

down more crowded streets

past the fish mongers

with stores like aquariums

strange fishes with scribbled Chinese writing

past courthouse

streaming tired defendants

walking crowded

crowding one another

all of us pile down the steep steps

for delectable Chinese food

twenty-four hours

we’ll take one or longer

on our expanding lunch hour

speaking and dreaming

of a Czech breakfast

of whiskey and beer

or Belfast rain

to lure us away

from the teeming millions.

The Remaining Snow

I have seen enough snow
To know that some leaves
And some remains.

On warm mornings it falls like rain
From eaves and shrubs that shrug it away
To glisten and flow to tinkling drains.

On frozen days it stands its ground,
Glowing blue as a resplendent cowl,
Chilling its bearer, yet thrilling her, too.

But other times, the snow melts soft
And hardens clear when darkness falls
Casting leaf and lamp alike

In glassy prisons, where we await
The moment when the light will break
This fearsome paralytic mood.

Conjuring in our captive minds
Alternate climes where cold is kind,
We cannot glimpse the coming glow,

But glow it will and free it must;
The selfsame craft that gave us ice
Did also make the loosing flame.

And still, in May, I'll find in shade
A shadow of the snow that made
The world its slave for hours and days
And wonder where else the snow remains.

Blackout Walk

past the mobs of downtown works

and tourists popping flashbulb shots

vulture-ing for window positions

to clip a snippet of the end of the world,

wet with August sweat

foot-stepping on blisters for home, home, home

joined the draft of passers-by

re-routing loutish drivers

firing back pouts and surly shouts

at cabs, trucks

and Fifth Avenue regulars,

helping wage the losing war

against the choking gas machines

past goddesses in relief

with sweat-moist flesh

that blesses haggard horny eyes,

past vacant cabs

and rip-off vans

edge past

half-naked Spanish women

and shirtless men

drumming salsa tunes

under sparkled skies,

watched by tired cops

among the smoldering flares

up, up again

to where men in tank tops

slap down dominoes

over beer and oranges,

a sad sack poet drinking up the darkness

and looking for good times