POWERHAND IN A
VERY LOST LAND
There are no glimmerings of magic now -
Fifty-seventh street is fixated upon itself,
and Times Square dawdles to placate idiot
crowds. I wipe off someone's ice-cone
from the sleeve of my own jacket.
-
Those little people really gall me : probably
Mexican, or some blasted Hispanic, all
others having long ago fled. Incessantly,
from here to Bryant Park, black guys are
still peddling. The wares and the noontime
smokes snake the street like lines the kids
in pre-school make.
-
Drugs at least are gone - they've now
all been taken home. You can do that
now as well - no more flaccid hulks
of slumbering filth in blankets by their
cards. I haven't seen anyone in their
self-soiled pants in quite some time.
-
If only people would respect their mind
like they respect their material world.
No comments:
Post a Comment