Dusk Towards Destruction (Fall-ish 2008)

(Alright, and now a poem about New York. Being in love, being in New York. I really don't write about anything other than that. But why would you really? Shout out to anyone who was ever present in apartment 7, I miss it there...)

Darkness dulls the city sounds.
I walk uptown and picture the stars
I cannot see but know are there.
It takes a certain amount of faith
to live under these constant lights.

A young Jewish boy rushes past me
and I wonder where he's heading.
Two buses and a truck grumble in baritone
as they lumber uphill.
There is a breeze from the sky
and a breeze from passing sedans,
mostly yellow cabs.

I'm passing store windows without searching them
because I walk by them often
and I know they aren't showcasing anything I need.
I glance in a pizza parlor
and see that same Jewish kid.
I wonder if that slice was worth the rush
and then I forget him.

The block gets suddenly darker,
and then lighter,
and I pause in the middle of crossing my street
to look east and west,
up and down the asphalt tunnel that cuts
across the landscape.
I can almost see the river and suddenly I miss the water.
I miss the sound of it
and the solid way it looks against the skyline
and I wish I were submerged.

The scene is taken in and I know
I must finish crossing,
back onto a familiar sidewalk,
past the old church I'm sure
I'll never set foot it.
I say hi to the library across the street
(I don't visit because the smell of so many books
is too overwhelmingly romantic.)

The green stoop is home,
on an island of streelight lit night
walks home, and rivers
just out of sight.