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.