In the mist,
black granite,
linked scales
melt away—
memories of
Times Square,
Broadway’s past.
From afar,
the tinkle
of a music box
is heard—
a hopeful melody,
almost a lullaby.
Below-The street
pleads a prayer
to the broken sky—
“just a haunting,
gentle touch.”
The morning breaks
over two towers
built and rebuilt-
over coffee, doughnuts—
old promises kept,
new promises
broken and rebroken.
Yet, there is the hope
of new beginnings
rising through the
steaming sewer lids,
the proud
lady in the harbor
seeing once again
New York awaken.
Leave a Reply