New York at Night

Dusk falls.
Across the river, the city wakes,
shakes off the icy cold of night
and goes on,
not glamorous, but gritty,
a million meetings in restaurants,
on the street corner,
in hotels and coffee shops,
hustling, always hustling,
bitter, beautiful, bullying,
such a mix of heaven and hell
that even God must be bewildered.

Ice floats in the harbor,
undulating with each wave,
cold water corpses,
dark and dirty in the falling light,
romantic and deadly cold.

You pull up your collar and turn away.
You have been to the city.
You have enjoyed it’s promise,
the rich life so unlike your own.
It is a place to sojourn, to visit,
a place to grasp it’s energy for a short time
and return to your bucolic home,
grateful such places exist,
grateful you are not in it’s thrall.

About this poem.

I am working in New York City for a couple of days. I love the city. I love its energy. I love the unimaginable variety of people, places, art, business, stories. I come back energized every time I visit.

But, as they say “It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”  That’s really all this poem is about. No hidden meanings. Nothing deep. Nothing emotional. Just wandering thoughts before I head down to the streets of Manhattan.

The picture was taken last night, from across the river, in New Jersey.

Tom