Subway Strangers

conversation snippets

patter like precipitation

this heat, that rain

what job, which station

desperate souls

and lonely trolls

railing needlessly

as we roll

castaways

among millions

clinging to the pole

all of us awkwardly

spying

for a friendly face

among these crowds

too sad, too lonely

but not too proud

Lone Wolf in Manhattan

stop to realize

I have become

a walking relic,

a tie-wearing man

in an open-collar world

where eunuchs grow beards

and women lean in

when they should stand

where savages

are taken for scholars

and beauty and art

is measured in dollars

but I smile widely

as I spot the sharp eyes

of my growing tribe

recused

and refuse

to live a lie

August Night

the music played

a sweaty, drunken romp;

a random gathering

on forgotten benches

as cabs careened

up 6^th Avenue

kissing to the white noise

that was Friday night’s anarchy,

the Village sang for us

and sent us on our way

Il Toscano

The Douglaston rabble

is old and loud;

they shout at the waiter

by name.

The heat flushes us;

we stay stoic and proud.

We look the part,

but can’t act the same.

We pay our bill,

savor the coffee

and the fact

we have souls.

We draw our power

from the star-splattered night;

we soar above these petty lords

and their reign over dinner chairs.

We dip

our coffee spoons

in the soft flank

of the ice cream.

Tip well

and glide through

the dining rooms

and away;

running headstrong

into the winter night

and greater magic

to come.

At the Campbell Apartment

an old safe

in a faux fireplace

prays mutely

for greater purpose;

the guests

don’t think about

its great secrets

or former treasures

as they swirl their wine

chatter echoes on,

words falling

uncounted

on the dusky walls

minutia of business,

hollow words

stream endlessly,

keeping us from

going home

to real life

and our better selves