Five O’Clock Fifth Avenue, Late November
The big spruce is already lit
It is the season between seasons
There’s so much to do, but not yet
I can’t see the lights of Broadway here
Neither can I see the moon
But walking through, I know they’re there
Just like greatness: not quite visible,
lives inside those lovely co-ops
by the Park. Their lobbies are simple
black and white, fire-lit, the doormen
quietly manage the doors to poised
arrivers who smile, pat a forearm
take their time to arrive, hold
the elevator in every month
not just the late November cold
Right before turning east
to reminders, bedtimes, mental whirls
where both the avenue and street
join at the steps to the Museum
I re-avow to stay here and stay
like those who live beyond the season.
