Glass Walls

In the backseat of my cab, I see through the rain-stained window,
59th street in the cloud of night.
The city is no longer that great mechanical
maze made for the prowl of a swift pedestrian,
but a watery, flat black map.

The raindrops have washed it out into a
sad medley of blinking colors.
Stoplight red drips down the glassy canvas
across smudges that must be tall blue buildings,
and the white lights in soft orbs
trail off into the distance, following
towards more flat blackness.
They could be stars or comets on a child’s construction-paper cosmos.
I am an arm’s width away from the the fleeting swing
of the streets, yet I see it all as if
through a kaleidoscope.

If this picture was all I could see of the city,
I would never know of slick glass walls and silver skyscrapers.
I wouldn’t know the faces or eyes of the blurry figures huddling
beneath the shelters of storefronts.
I would not see where the road curves or the streets become
new streets. I would not know if those slumped figures are people sleeping
on the sidewalks or if the bakery on the corner smells like cinnamon.

Yet the entirety of the city, every crack in the
concrete and every sewer rat’s burrow and every
promising hot paper cup of coffee,
is still firmly present through this glazed picture in the window.
I know New York well, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen it more clearly.

Keep driving.
Even traffic won’t let me stay still for long here.
Let the weeping colors and the rain-spattered screen
travel alongside the sidewalks and the street signs
like all the people with no faces do.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8c9xgb/sobriety/dxdchwo/?context=0

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8c8wen/fever_dream/dxdcsn2/?context=0