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Times Square
Here is a photo taken so long ago
no one had any gray hairs or
drinking problems or a burden
of sadness too large to carry.
Though the inklings are there —
the shimmy in the glass sitting
on the TV stand, the slight
frown between pretty, plucked
brows. Just outside the frame
a fight going on — nothing major —
room service steak delivered too rare —
why can’t anything ever be right
anymore? The grimy window
is raised just that hand’s width
that hotels allow to let in a breath
of skyscraper air — June balm, bus
exhaust, screech and honk twenty
stories below where the marquee lights
are pale. Across the river, loved ones so long
dead it is hard to remember their faces,
have dragged lawn chairs into the driveway,
turned on the ballgame. They’re holding hands,
trying not to get too excited as it starts
to look like their hard-luck team
is finally going to win.
Return to Volume 2.4
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