Wireshell trash can sweep-brushed by Fusion, Alero, Chrysler Something. They’re filled to the brim like sepia-stained skyscrapers with swivel chairs and water cooler pow-wows. Boss’ talking fax machines and projections for the second fiscal quarter, flipping a stock EKG reading on its ***. We’re all millionaires. All up like the NYSE at seven o’clock in our living rooms watching the fireplace playfully threaten our investments while CNN sends money through the VCR slot. Cars, no garbage trucks, cars, cars, scraping hubcaps off the high sidewalks like beautiful harpsichords. Neighbors. Suitcases and dresser drawers packed tight with meat tape, paper towels, and coffee mugs/fine China make heaped trash bags seem obsolete. There’s no garbage here. Downtown’s neon district makes enough that they could afford a glowsign on every window, every square inch of every lunch special, gallery opening, or Salvation Army bell-ringer.
Forget New York, we're the city that never sleeps.
A poem I wrote for a film Lycoming's Crossing the Frames Productions is working on.