Thanksgiving; Union Square

We are the audience of wastrels.
With nowhere to go on a Friday night we stand
separate and alone
bound still to the strains of your harmonica. Its sadness
magnified – and echoed,
high notes racing along blank subway tiles tying us each in turn
void bodies all; none leaving
for the nothing
we have waiting.

• • •

Times Square at Two

Two girls follow a pigeon – in
combat boots and black mascara.
Follow it and
harass it. Harass it unyielding
against the kaleidestrobing lights
of Broadway and 42nd.

• • •

Cigarette

I lost my cigarette!” he shouts
and runs after it. Rolling,
brown and white,
clean and contained,
pristine – against dirty black concrete.

• • •