A Song of New York

New York makes the angels sings
and steals the faces of the poor
and tells of the glories of the rats
of the mysteries of the sidewalks unfolded
and how the pigeons
swindle old ladies out of bread.
how dreams congregate
in the heads
of the hurried.

Ah, the words come tumbling
like an endless stream of clowns
from a little car.
Dreams are not enough;
Only the visions are true.

And they speak to me
Of Melanie who promises everlasting happiness
If she can manage and invest my funds
Of the Tom Kat Bakery
Which still refuses to say
How many cats are used in each loaf
But I have heard the mutant purring come to a sudden stop
Too often. Too soon.

And they tell how the stone lions march down Fifth Avenue
Crushing the air beneath their feet.
We have so little earth this year
They complain quietly.
And how Attila rides through Wall Street
Wielding his sword against all comers.
It is the best of slaughter this time.
The best of the hardened ones.
only a Hallelujah,
could be better.

But it is at night
that the buildings come alive
they can be heard murmuring in the dark.
“WE are the city,” they say. “We are its glory
and here always,
not these creatures, who flow in and out
with the sun.”
And they take some now and again.

Yet I know what they think
and that there are only two promises to earth
and we must keep them
no matter the windows, no matter the pulsing erect
I-beams, hearts rising to the sky.
no matter the quiet mouse in Times Square.

It is only for the books, we say
only for the colossal thought
that makes us great
that we come again.

And it is I who have a destiny with them.
I have more than can possibly be said or heard
so that I can remain faithful.
I carry these gifts upon my lungs, my brain
my tongue, my head, my all-or-nothingness, from everything on the ground
to everything in the sky.

And it is all so that
somewhere
twenty-four dollars in beads and trinkets
stays buried.