City Mornings

I like the morning city

With its crisp clean air

Like the smell of ammonia

On hospital walls

The sky, pristine porcelain

Blue – cool like fresh waters –

And clouds that glimmer white

Like the marble floors of corporate

Buildings

The city morning

Metropolitan bustle is like a

Nostril whistle

Of a dormant giant

That wheezes indolently,

Sways steadily

Like the dozing eyes

Of crack crooks

Dope dealers

Maryjane junkies

Heroin hustlers  

That sing on subway stations

With coors cans

On both hands,

Their nodding heads swerving

To the rust track rhythm

Of machinery

Good morning! We are Bronx bound

And inert, rocking in our seats

Like babies on cradles

Our eyes heavy,

Swollen,

Dark like our bodies

And our language

Our heads turned aside

So as not to smell

Touch, see ourselves

In others

Our reflections, weary –

Tremulous – carved

On the window

Panes

And outside, the tracks

Churn their steel

The tunnel walls – agitated –

Furiously rush past

Like film reel,
Memories or time

I like the morning city

And its feigned frailty

Its dainty innocence

Like a crystal ball

But you’ve swallowed us

Pure, and spat us

Raw