20161005 (city)

Walking the High Line, a gardened walkway built on the tracks of the elevated running along the edge of the city, in SW Manhattan

Autumn in New York is ideal

But they mean autumn in

Manhattan, years ago when 

Branches of the trees heavily 

Laden with orange and red 

Leaves bowed over sidewalks

And boulevards. Caught just

A bit of that walking the High 

Line back to 23rd Saturday

Afternoon from the renewed

Whitney with Emily and Ben

Who live in Chelsea half a

Block from where a cooker

Bomb took out a dumpster on

The next street over. That city

Is still a pedestrian’s paradise:

Looking up to scan the variety

Of cornice crests, the front face

Grates of iron escapes, the 

Flowers in windows grasping

Their few hours of sunlight,

The curtains, blinds, arches of

Old windows, or lower still

The doorways and the stoops,

Lush but tiny gardens behind

Elaborate fences of iron cast

Over a century ago, the 

Black bars bent over air 

Conditioners to protect them

From theft but suffering names

And messages raked across

The thin fins, storefronts 

Crowded with hardware or 

With puppies at eye level

Snoozing along the windows

Without signs—people knowing

Not to rap on the glass as they

Pass by, or bare with spare

Modernity and one-word titles

Like Authority, a single clerk

And single customer discussing

Whatever it is Authority sells

Or does, narrow Thai restaurants

Jammed between electronics shops

And drug stores, occasional food

Stores stacked high with all sorts

Of nosh from near or far along 

Intricate narrow aisles where 

Shoppers must ask to get by,

Where no doubt young lovers 

Meet for the first time

Searching for the same tea

Or exotic root to use in supper

That night, a street performer

Naked but for his briefs freezing

In the low 60s, frozen into a

Pose while the curious stop to

Watch for his blink or flinch

At their presence, walkers peeping

At the occupants of nearby

Apartments who walk past their

Windows waving hello to

Their voyeurs on the old

Elevated tracks. Despite the 

Softly blowing drizzle of that

Gray day myriads of the eager

Crowd gathered to parade as 

Natives of that blessed place,

So many more than live in

That city who have perhaps

Grown weary to the visual 

Delights abounding there,

My daughter terms the visitors

“Bridge and Tunnel” New 

Yorkers, like myself who

Are not inured to the glory of

This boisterous assemblage

In so many ways more startling

Than the breathless artifices

In the museums.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016