To New York

Bayard, LSAW 2010

Little green tables, Parisian
in their dainty uprightness,
extend across the grass,
a marching band plays

in the distance,
a small boy chases
smaller pigeons, his father
grasping a fleeting moment,

of friends gathered on blankets,
plastic cups of wine,
Monday night movies in July.

New York
is raw
no bullshit living.
It is its people,

the abruptness of a woman's stride,
the caffeine rush of bodies
flooding in, stern faces
beginning their stern days,

jazz jam in Grand Central Station,
a father begging for a dime,
new faces, unfamiliar
speech, orange dress and blue jeans,

pigeons and their Egyptian walk,
a tiny bird fighting
for a piece of bread that must be
twice her size.