nyc mornings

the mist-smog grinds down 7th
thrashing papers and bits of dreams
from the hopeless dreaming homeless.
lights shine for no one.

men drive, men honk, men growl.
their hearts are stillborn, but their fists work.
they go
to battle in boardrooms
while women seek another way.

a bird hits the glass and dies
and falls
and dies some more on touchdown.
patters of tears from a nearby fountain,
sponsored by jp morgan chase
in corporate plaza,
open to the public
dawn to dusk.
this dead bird is not public
yet here she is - or was

well anyway thank you
says the doorman.
no thank you says the doorpasserthruwoman.

each remaining separate forever,
thrown in the heap.

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