The beauties of Manhattan weave their goddess resemblances
through the vapor of a still afternoon
while the plaid September suits deal to try to earn their
ardor
with conjured reassurances and smiling words.
It’s the kind of a day a cat stays in the window for,
where even the men in blue look on benignly, beatifically
as they collect by the thousands at the Waldorf Astoria
war-zone fortified for the heads of state visiting.
Blondes beam at me behind black sunglasses
while men try to pin their words to my lapel
but still I don’t exist, amid the chandeliers of crystal
and amethyst,
the river of mirrors, the golden gleam of pretzels in the
sun,
the feeling that we’re walking through a painting in a
museum as one,
but then an Asian woman, without speaking, presses a
piece of paper
to my hand: “Organ Harvest of the Falun Gong for China’s
tourist trade”
and I realize I have been alive the whole time.
