New York

New York,--a barren city, devoid of color.

The gusting winds holler

At pedestrians crossing the zebra.

Mercury’s frozen at zero.

The passage of time cares not for infants,

But here, even nymphets

Lack vital signs and only cold statues

Appear to capture

The chill that stitches these side streets.

Each morning, the eye greets

The hung-over clouds, like drying clothes.

And each night, the moths

Anxiously soar to the burning candle,

And clocks strike the temple

With a pulse that can keep you awake

At your wake.