Goodbye 57th Street

Goodbye 57th Street
by James H Duncan

restless shuffling in the coffee joint line and the tables piling
up like the final lifeboats in a concrete tempest, but we
travelers don’t needs tables for long, glide curbside and blow into our
hot coffee cups, steam dancing turvy into the air as the transit bus
collapses continuous down the rumble-street & wheezing noxious
daydreams spawned by the derelict riders rocking respite-bound inside
and we’re just blowing into our coffee and hoping maybe some
blonde haired girl in a green dress like the one passing now will look
up just once and see a sun worth smiling at instead of droning out a steady
NYC stare like all beautiful women in Manhattan do at all hours with
their rapid stick-legged walk—wow how we all try without arrival,
aching to glimmer just right in the offhand sun and taxiing to gates
that may not exist, but you and I know our destinations are endless
and there’s always someone ready to rip your ticket stub as you lift
your bags and step onto that wayward blacktop once again and always

1 thought on “Goodbye 57th Street

  1. An effective, well-sustained piece. Commuter doldrums run together on an endless track of associations brightening with hope in the middle and then fading away into infinite regress.

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