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.