AFTER DINING AT TOFFENETTI'S
I am miserable on Broadway. The news
kiosk says the Cold War is heating up,
and that Adlai Stevenson is dead. Dead
on a London street, exiting a cab or
somesuch morbid scene. I can't adjust
to this rabid world any longer.
-
I will sit here, perhaps by Father Duffy's
statue, though I'm never sure what he
did to gain such praise. Freed slaves?
Invented mayonnaise? My mind gets
as cheap as my rhymes. The natural
light here, I notice, is all gone, and
everything is artificial.
-
Cabs crawl and rich ladies walk.
Top-hatted men, frisky perhaps, go
by at a pace both deliberate yet slow.
Everyone seems looking for something,
no matter where they go. My dinner
cost me $10.95. Quite extravagant,
but a singular prize too; I was happy
and alone, thinking of you.
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