Lights from a Fort Lee Love-Seat

Traffic up the West Side
shows no signs of dwindling down
as I sit and watch from a safe vantage point
high above the Hudson. It's a party
I guess, but I'm ready for bed
and Lady Death's overdue cousin.

Down towards Brooklyn
I focus on a single yellow light, one of many
in a flat stretch flickering.
And that's all that life looks like
from this far away, from a crowded Jersey
high-rise apartment where tonight
I'd rather not be.
Not tonight.

They're on and off and each one is five people
or twenty, or thirty, or none--
just a mirage. And when one finally dies
they all may leave, or maybe, if two are lucky
they've remained. Staying is the hardest part:
even for the stubborn; especially for the lonely.

A brat with no manners pulls a quarter from my nose
as I sit and sip my cocktail
painfully still the same. The ice has melted
and the crushed lime's gone bitter.
It takes a man to make me a drink anymore
though women are usually the reason.

I look for my light and find it again.
The kid points at my face
telling me not to move a muscle.
For once in my life it's easy to comply.

I'm no rock. I'm no island.
Manhattan is a cemetery
that I'll have to visit again sometime
if only out of respect.



Currently reading:
"Blackwater: The Rise of the World's Most Powerful Mercenary Army" by Jeremy Scahill.