Short  fat  cops  on  every corner, one
posing   with  a  Chinese  couple,  his
weapon  snug in its holster.  The Irish
bar still flies the bunting of shamrocks
and  leprechauns.  Black  boys plug in
hip-hop, spinning on  skip-scavenged
cardboard.  A  blue jay  sings  behind
the  Met  as  we  seek out  Strawberry
Fields  walking  past  pretzel  vendors
and magazine kiosks selling Gatorade.
New  York   broads  are   skinny-built
living on falafel and Star Bucks, carry
tiny  dogs in  Louis Vuitton bags, they
could fly with a boot up the ass. Forty
foot   banks  of   shimmery   hoarding
show   little   Daniel  Radcliffe’s  face
advertising How to Succeed… Outside
Tiffany’s   marble  walls   we  see  his
saffron  diamond  cannot  cut  its way
out of  seven-inch-thick glass, morsel
diamonds  are available  to buy inside.
Hats and ringlets flap as Hasidic Jews
stride    to   synagogues.    The  Italian
clerk in the camera store offers a ride-
along  in  his in-law’s cruiser and sells
NYPD  t-shirts  for  the heroes of nine
eleven;   I  recall  a  Liverpool  budget
meeting  when we watched the towers
collapse.  Sunday morning 5th Avenue
is shut  and the  joggers  run for Japan
and the chuggers for  tsumani victims.
An out-of-work Caribbean actor sings
Summertime to   the   queue   at   the
Guggenheim,  he’s  good  but  no one
donates  to his cap.  Our Arabic driver
stalls  his  limo  in   a  hive  of  yellow
cabs, there’s  pummelling of the hood
as   horns   object,    Hispanic   curses
dazzle   through  the  tinted  windows,
Liberty waves goodbye to Kemosabe.

Sue Spiers