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| Mime on 9th Ave, New York. |
The last leaves snap from the trees
and fall in the street, like the dead.
Torn newspaper spins in barred alcoves,
lost of its purpose, like the dead.
Listen! The debris of the living speaks in the wind,
so like the dead.
Horns in Hell's Kitchen, sidewalks enthronged,
beings by thousands striding the concrete,
somewhere to be.
Toughs break for cash at the feet of Columbus,
mourners in Central Park still crying for Lennon,
a silver man mimes for a living on Ninth,
billiard balls barking in barlight on Tenth,
men in jerseys and beards
shouting at televisions over it all, idol-high,
epic and glorious overtime endings,
So like her chosen, last city.
