I’m under West 50th, stooped, stomping
my feet, inviting heat to fight the cold,
wet concrete, hoping the C-train’s screech sings
its pained metal-on-metal blues soon. Old
ice hangs in gray-black stalactites from arched
braces of ceiling, frozen crust matching
the street’s ashened sleet, piling though it’s March.
Stubborn, lingering winter darkness stings
my soul. From another platform a wall
away, music begins to flow. Someone’s
unseen trumpet floats out a lonely call
of Summertime. It’s 1981.
Next week, the Mets start their losing season,
and John Hinckley will shoot Ronald Reagan.
Roger Armbrust
December 5, 2008
