New York's Pull
by Mary Hamrick
Subways seize her.
Crowded within its capsule
her thin body is trapped by this pirate.
Whisked along, the train nurtures;
it is as though she is seated within a woodwind,
a flute, with finger-like holes.
Flute blowing. Vibrating.
Grime hanging onto those windows
hangs like a dirty bandage.
Within tunnels,
the train, like the city, manipulates.
Rocking motions speak to her and say, "Stay."
"Go."
"Stay."
Sleeping on arms of strangers
she knows
she can never go home again.
Buried under the city streets,
wrapped in lambs loosely curled fur,
her body is swallowed up
with play and pleasure.
She can be found wearing cashmere sweaters and
biting the green of a salted apple
and sleeping in New York’s boroughs
under iron spikes.
With New York’s pulse coquettishly seductive,
she knows
she can never go home again.
Drunks' hypnotic ranting
while guzzling booze, with awful bursts
and woozy-strange customs,
deepen dark alleys. Sweet New York City
feeding on creatures behind double-door rooms
that are all mussed-up
with tempers
like broken windows
that explode against weathered concrete.
"Come into my parlor," the billboards say,
and as she sits inside a cab
sunken and jerked around,
she says, "Mister, please know
I can never go home again."
As though whittled out of wood,
the cabbie’s time-scarred face
lined with strong whiskey sinning
becomes uneasy as he smiles
and tells her, "Stay."
"Then . . . go."
*This poem previously appeared in On the Page
(Issue 12, Summer/Fall 2005. |
|
The Subway - City Living
by Rochelle Moore
Bullying businessmen barge through throngs of crowds
Herded, like cattle, winding their weary way home
Enclosed subway tunnels add pollution that enshrouds
Ant-like people swarming in every direction
Thousands, wearily winding their way home to their haven
Open the garden gate, finally time to relax
Forget for one fleeting moment the worry of work commitments
No longer imprisoned in an abandoned clone-like mind
The longing dispersed to crawl inside a shell
Silence reigns at home whilst bedlam holds it's loud tongue
Beyond their gate their key to sanctuary in hand
Shimmering brass glints in the sunshine fair
Home at last, the front door shut firm behind
A few steps forward reveals the garden's reward
Their stamp-sized haven, here a man can refresh
The battle-cry of city life is banished for a mere moment.
www.mandala-press.com
|
