Broadway for Paul: Poems

BETWEEN THE GRIFFON AND MET LIFE for Vivien I am totally enamored of every person passing in thisunseasonably warm mid-March evening near39th and Park The young women, of course, with their lives in front ofthem, and the young men too, just standing here as I am,checking it out, hanging out, talking But everyone here, every age, every type, is beautiful, themoment, somehow, the weather, has made them all realand for this moment, before it turns to night, they’re allfantastic The light is such that I can see everyone and can imaginewhat they are imagining for the night ahead, what dreams,what fulfilled fantasies of togetherness And the two guys who were here a moment ago, paused, havemoved on, and the light is deepening, every moment or so,actually falling into a deeper stupor, which is night But if I look south I still see the pink flush of desire there atthe bottom, the southness of all our lives, and it’s okaythat it’s darkening here, people accept it as they concoctplans for tonight, Thursday Soon I’ll have to go too, lose this spot, this moment, but somewe’ve met and some experience we had somewhere else isbecoming ever more important  THIS BEAUTIFUL BUBBLE Everyone takes the subway, and you can look up,And look at all the people, and each one is different,And they look different, and each one has a story, andsuddenly,You are awake and want to know each story, only you can’t,Don’t have time, they don’t, don’t want to maybe. But some you do, you glean, you approximate yourself tosomething of them,Like the delicate, chestnut-skinned woman who, leaning,Listened to the announcer before getting in, and, confused,because the 2 was called a 5,Asked advice, and three people responded,Explaining in their different ways, some of them silent,Eyes met with approval, warmth only subway-known,Among equals, fellow travelers, denizens; She sat and smiled, and looking at an infant,Smiled more, her hair was a flag of self-joy too,She was real, at ease among people.The rule is: to speak.Make contact, and you will find more people than youthought. But back to our bubble. It is everywhere around us.Everywhere, walking in the city, you are seeing people, All different kinds, shapes, sizes, the best educationYou can give a child is to bring them up inside thisBubble. I complain, but I’ll never leave.I feed off the looks, the stories, the hungering here. I’m aware, we’re all aware, what goes on outside the bubble.We’re not stupid. We just thought people outside the bubblewanted the same thing:To live as variously as possible.Or, put another way: I am the least difficult of men.All I want is boundless love. It took us sixty years or so to understandWhat the word “boundless” meant.And now we know.  7 A.M. POEM They carry their lunches in paper or plastic bagsThey are rushing but composedThey don’t speak muchThey’re quiet this morning, maybe preoccupied with bigviolent forces moving in the capital They have work to do and they are trying to do itFamilies to feed and teach or elseJust moving ahead with life, trying to be someplace betterA little further on ahead The people arriving on trains are not New Yorkers, butThey too are filled with desires, plans, wrapped in wintercoatsAs the people crashed out on stairs or in abandoned buildingsPeople in high boardrooms creating situations affecting thosewith nothing  SEASONS I used to love the seasonsNow I try to find one in a daySometimes all four, and othersBut I still revel in fall wind causing meTo zip my jacket in early February  CITY TONE People across the way are getting work doneCluttered offices, boxes in windows, sill loadedOn the other side, direct view down hallwayLined with photos, bricks in reflection, our gargoyleThis city’s primary tone is ambiguityA building here, a spire there, nothing connected February 10, 2017Washington DC  MORNING, OR EVENING? Everywhere, right now, parents are making breakfast,Older people waking up alone, another day Walking down platform, seeing the flood of faces coming intothe city,One is taken, not by a Heinrich Böllian sense of dullsameness,But rather that this is an epochal momentWe all share, we are all somehow in this together. Repeated rhythms, every Thursday, placing coins or a billor twoInto the open valise of the trumpeter always there—Grand Central he plays, and the lineage, where that musicflows from,Where it is going, an undeniable story in our midst,Woven into our fabric, that none, in their heart of hearts, candeny. Important to be in one’s own head, not subject to advertisingor even others’ art. Leaving tracks covered in snow, tracks in snow, rockimposing wall,Cross the river, gain speed, struts protect the building fromfalling down. Clouds travel faster than houses, farther back, we pass towns,Skirt highways, fly through wetlands,Faster than speed, we are bringing information, ways ofseeing: Transmit focus to fingers on controls,So blighted, threatened, scared as little children, terrified ofown ignorance. This is a chapter; it will end,And there will be another chapter, and that will end, andso on,Until we come to the end of the book, and that’s that.But the thing is, what did your book add up to, what did itsay?The Greeks believed your character determines your fate.You can veer here and there, but ultimately something insideyou, the way you are,Has already determined the kinds of choices you will make.  A SONG BEYOND for Audrey How do you measure success?There were two things I asked people.She traveled, wrote songs, and a clacking was heard in trees.A fox appeared in a field, waited, sat, seemed to want caress.The trees’ black trunks stood, their branches intricateveining.The sky went from dark blue to light cream,A star floated in its ether.The field grew darker, less hospitable to the human.Most people never go anywhere.By “go anywhere” I don’t mean a trip to Europe or Asia.I mean expand beyond their bounds.  FLOWS I saw a couple embrace passionately on the cornerAn old woman holding a young woman’s handA woman escorting two toddlersA blast of sun in warm February almost MarchAgainst black and grey granite façade  RIVER This is where I’m a poet:Right here, at the edge of the river, in the coldThose colors at the end of day, in winterI’m able to have my own views out hereAnd I can hear the water lapping I love this curved building lit up at nightLike somewhere in Germany  METRO-NORTH Stratford’s arched bridge in hazeBridgeport big business and seaEmpty lots and highways still courtsArenas smoke ruined fabricationFairfield Metro giant facility shopsFairfield cuteness is dilemma Greenwich blonde brunette a modernSculpture and blasted rockStamford many get off a riverModern dullness distracted by personal lifeChurch spire handles the skyNoroton Heights Darien cute little nervousnessWestport light flickers on tree vinesA river sailboat then shrubsFairfield glory tree and split railBridgeport massive columns gutted fieldIglesia Cristiana Pescadores de HombresGiant Machiavellian FactoryConvolute intricate destructionChurch darkly subdues neighboring roomersStratford graffiti and prone rusted culvertsAncient bridge abandoned pilesMilford ancient buried deadWest Haven tall grass and cranes West Haven golden arch elevatedElevated highway low homes Pockets of inletsMilford’s grave scrub bridgePass over highway highway pass over BridgeportTug barge and ferry defrocked churchGreen’s Farms highways electrical mains yardOcean wetlands Westport the gates to town Pelham Bay manor homesExtensive cemeteriesRain-soaked ball courtsFairfield Metro a large areaA blank wall some parts painted whiteAn arch huge wood chunks stainedMetal flap: rain protection? on bridgeDerelict buildings being demolishedMilford delapidated shacks with skylightsWest Haven dirty snow mounds still line parking lot New Haven rainy platform train half in shedArray of tracks large-gauge dark gravelMilford a nice little street and marinaSouthport a swan on an inletGreen’s Farms wetlands yellow swamp grass leading out New Haven tower as in Christ Church paintingSculls surprisingly on the Westport This station is South NorwalkThe next station is RowaytonIt is Spring, the trees are in leafFlowers lend a gentlenessTo stocky warehousesBarracks-like storage unitsGiant, jagged rocks surgeThe earth is full of lifeThe sun almost too bright inDarien’s cloud-fostered hazeRiverside’s delicate applesLong-view river mouthDocks and decks like in Maine