Manhattan: 4 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The life in Manhattan
Is such a breeze.
Waking up to the sound
Of busy trains
And subways
Their echoes muffled,
Slicing the horizon in two
And the fountains of the
Heavens would pour
Their pristine waters over
The streets.

And in the night,
You will fall asleep
To the sound of the sirens
And the modest humming
Of the slow vehicles.

We were resigned to a couch,
And she placed the Holland Tulips
On the coffee table,
Got dressed, getting poised for slumber
And she fastened herself to one of my arms
As I wrote poetry.
The poem reads:

If I were to die today,
In the melancholy of the seraphs,
I would be dismayed.

If I were to face death today,
In a solitary room, with the scent
Of coffee and vanilla
Cloying my lungs,
I would be infuriated.

(And then I started to write
This one, as I noticed
That she was riveted to my
Arm.)

The only death I want
Is on a Manhattan bed,
Regardless of vastness,
Writing poetry at 11: 00 in
The evening
With the effervescent moon
Dying, losing light
To give way to the
Efflorescent Sun,
With a love,
Coiled to your arm,
Close to your cynosure.

And that, I wrote,
And I noticed that she slept
Not on the poem,
But on me
And I have never felt so alone
In my entire life
Here in Manhattan,
With the scent of her hair
With slight traces of the moonlight,
I kept on touching her hands
And noticed her French-tip lacquer
And I quickly resigned to sleep.

I carried her,
And positioned her into a comfortable one.
I slid the poem below her pillow,
And slept as the lights died.
The moon died.
The noise died.
She died – in a slumber.
Everyone else was asleep,
And it was my loneliest night.