The last look
Of the scraggly trees
Scraping their black fingernails
Across the wistful shingles
Of the buildings

The last breath of moonlight,
Whispering on the curtains
Shall forever slumber
In my iris
The last smell of sheer power,
Radiating off the skyscrapers
And the smell of the cigarette from the man with the
Rusty barbed wire hair
Who sleeps on the doorsteps of Broadway

The last blink of the artificial light of the streetlamps flickering
On and off
Like a dying firefly
Moonlight under water
Like the old man who has many ideas
But is not brave enough to present them

Oh New York, you will forever be caught
In the tangled thicket
Of past importance