A Beast Called Manhattan
'American' Part 3: Nothing is as they think it is
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The rain reminds me of what I once believed New York to be
It runs through the streets and swirls into the glimmering petrol stains, a tango of Mother & man
With eyes closed, I try to decipher the sounds of traffic among beating droplets
Or can you have the rain without the sound of it splashing under tires on Broadway?
I remember days in dark coffee shops, staring out the window, to watch the people scurry
Sad and amused, I and all the other coffee shop loiterers, a few dollars in our pockets, nothing more, nothing less
The puddles luminesce in grey, a perfect reflection of the sky
A lonely bird hops through grass and hollers to its friends, a solo Moses amidst the flock
The wind carves a path through the living room, chills us with the scent of fog-swept pavement
Trees dance gently over the sidewalk and romance the earth below with flower blossom kisses
All the tiny parts of the beast of Manhattan fall out of time
The romantics saunter and reminisce on what has not yet passed
The fatigued stay home in cozy protest
The responsible hasten their step to escape the torrents
The begrudging slow down, uninspired by the grey, unprovoked by the wind
The city churns as rain pours through it, absolving it of the grime of self-abuse
The sun peaks through to check on its people, and they all look up, startled by a desire to do something, anything
which is swiftly quenched by the victory of censorial clouds, who whisper sweet day dreams
to lull all the tiny parts of Manhattan into their sleepy silence