Ode to New York

You are…

mistress of dreams,
tyrant of days,
clockwork of toil,
wound up and coiled
you leap at dawn,
a tiger, from the between the rushes
of cold concrete
that bathed in the golden sun
of morning and evening
line the great wash
that carries the flotsam
and detritus, memories
hopes and dreams,
from the slain of the day
washed up and
drained up,
leaving along the pathways
the savage scent and carcass,
like spoor, that is
feasted upon
by the tigers that lurks
deep down in all of us.

such is your myth
of jungle and fear
of crowning deceit
and unsatiated hunger
and yet i see you
in that setting sun,
when rushes darken,
when lost and alone,
when you seem so fragile
just a land,
teetering on the edge,
Almost falling into the sea of myth,
barely holding on,
by a sliver to the great
ruddy, muddy continent
to whom you belong.