I'm walking down
42nd street
toward Times Square
and can feel the electric
impulse of the people.
The unspoken mantra of the crowd?
Keep moving. Keep moving.
I've seen the department store
where Thanksgiving balloons
are carried by loopy volunteers
and I walked right up to
the neon sign where the ball drops
on my television at midnight
every January. The pulse of
Scorse's Mean Streets vibrates,
Where Rizzo rapped on the taxi's hood,
Where Travis Bickle came after giving a monologue
To his mirror. But in many ways,
it's simply dark and cold.
I've never seen
so many lights and colors
and the only thing I can think
to do is to file them under "N"
for "not me, "not mine." Under the
pulled close lapels of my coat
I whisper to myself,
"What am I doing here? Why am I here?"
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