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 eyelid flashes,

bouncing a reflection

off the crystal ruins

they’ll call The Age Of Glass