Cast in a thrift store trench coat

he’s not moving, not talking

Maybe he’s already dead, a sculpture

leaning against a skyscraper as an afterthought


Another young man, white, brisk walking,

going somewhere in proper uniform:

wears a cashmere scarf, gold quartz watch,

spit shined wing tipped shoes


Swinging briefcase smartly

in rush hour parade,

Sixth Avenue, Manhattan, NYC,

he doesn’t care for the smirk he gets


Stomach in, ass tight,

he feels himself a classic,

heels clicking on pavement,

eyes trained to avoid another


Shifting fifty stories

side to side on his shoulders,

the sculpture pretends not to see him,

doesn’t offer a blink


Well, possibly, one pupil flashes,

bouncing a reflection

off the crystal ruins

in the Age of Glass


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