Conscience
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.
