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