New Poems
Lobster Dance
Standing on the Bowery
waiting on a friend
ready for the show
flush with existential dread
searching a metaphor
to match his falcons’ gyre
you wish to write like Yeats
but all you’ve got is vultures
circling towards the fire.
Instead, you tread the
grimy thick jawed street
a moonlit shadow, unsure,
one more menace on the prowl
more Esau than Jacob
three generations
from shtetl removed.
Still, the stars beam your way.
The rock and rollers
of Hoboken soar tonight.
Broken wing, siren song,
Jim Mastro record drop
Bowery Electric
5th scotch and soda
holding onto the rail
as karyn kuhl
serenades the room
guitars beseeching
the lobster dance
flying high above
deep in the night.
You teeter to the subway
screeching underground
wondering how to fit in
and why the locals
never offer you a ride
across the river
back home.