Dire Manhattan #1 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Again here, underneath
The stark rooms of a shabby
Hotel chained to the streets,
I impatiently write the song
Of infidelity that screamed all
Over the rooftops covered
With rain.

The furniture tarnished
All throughout the drought,
The plague underneath the infinitely
Morose Manhattan sky,
And there, the tigers play
And disentangle the constellations
One by one,

Until nothing is left
But the man, and
The direst, that is Manhattan.