Such raiments would be the province
Of those gated and corniced places
Up on the hillside, and even that milieu
Living on residue and recollection,
The glories of the past
Fading like so many past-peak October leaves,
Beautiful in the sense of such colors
They heretofore possessed,
Though in any case, the whys and wherefores
And relative merits of thens and nows
Secondary to more prosaic matters:
The price per gallon at the Gulf station down on Route 17,
Seasonal temps at Bear Mountain
Trying line up some other gig or side-hustle
Once the land locks and the leaf-peepers and hikers go home,
Those hoping corroded propane tanks and curled shingles
Can make it just one more winter,
And if the worried and wondering
Enjoyed the luxury of philosophic musing,
They might ponder upon what those earlier residents
Who had lived at the apex of Manhattan society
(And possibly even those earlier residents,
Jumbles of Patroon and Lenape blood
Who crouched forlornly in the Palisades
As that skyline came into being)
Would think of what became of this place,
Yet as they look up there are no ghosts of the ancients,
But merely the impassive, lazily circling turkey vultures,
Implacable, enduring, constant.

Monarch butterflies are no where to be found
Lovely but dangerous Lantern flies are hiding
No jumping today
Squirrels are taking a nap
Birds flew away into higher trees
Count the small wet rings that become large circles
Like the chorus
Melody and harmony is soft but you can sing along
Altos and Sopranos
This one is for you
The light gray cloudy sky turning to an angry dark gray with a patch of black
The syncopation, harmony, melody and rhythm are all here in the September rain song

C@rainbowchaser 2023

I.

she lives in one of the crummy rooms
down the hall
in the building
where the rats run and tumble
through its terrible walls
like children at play

she has intimate conversations

with saints
and pigeons
and the daffodils in the park
and the rats in the walls
and late at night
with her dead daughter

her boots echo down the hall
she's going to clean the gutters of trash
and feed the cats
I watch from my window
the cats come running from the abandoned church
hundreds come running
the kids call her cat queen
i call her savior

II.


I still hear those boot steps
when the air turns cold
and lakes freeze
and her ghost tells me
people die the way they live
and through the looking glass
down the rabbit hole
we'll all go


III.


there in this concrete
in that crummy room
was the thief that hunts my dreams

but you were something gentle and kind
a brightness in the projects

a caring heart
a loving soul
in this city where there were few