Hudson River

Manhattan is a skyline of
brick and aluminium,
shaped like tall men
with incisors that tear you apart—
or wipe clean
memory. You will
not remember if you ever existed.
Women and men with no teeth
sit in Newark Liberty, gathering dust,
their belongings bundled defiantly.
The human presence is a jogger,
sirens stretching their wings, geese wailing.
You’d pay more attention to
the thock of a ball
in a tennis court, or
the hovering of a helicopter
over the Hudson River—
like a mosquito observing
how empty of life this city is.
If this man, holding his phone
without animosity,
disappeared, buried
his voice beneath his brown jersey,
I would bless this moment
and return to the buzzing dialogue
of the two baseball players behind me.
Technology will always answer
our prayers.
“God in heaven, let the
church bells play as long as
the helicopters and seagulls live.”
New York is small—it fits
in the palm of my hand.
In New Jersey, near the train station,
children learn about
their legs, feet,
eyes, and noses.
How will they learn
without stumbling? Without
fixating their gaze on the moving trains?
How will they know
New York stands
in the palm of their hands?