POEM: in New York, even the crappy restaurants play Talking Heads

in New York, even the crappy restaurants play Talking Heads

how many thousands of words
have I scratched into notebooks
trying to capture the exhalations of eight million souls?
here I am again:
Upper West Side, two blocks
from the luxury high-rise
where I squatted with nothing
but a blow-up bed and a kitchen island
a compact bald man in a suit
that looks nice from here
patrols the glass gates of Juilliard
while a service dog with Lon Chaney’s underbite
scans the sidewalk for danger
black-shirted workers unload buckets and buckets
of fresh flowers
across the street a man and a woman
sleep on adjacent benches
Beyonce’s saxophonist is on her way to meet me
the Lord moves in mysterious ways

/ / /
9 May 2014
New York City

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