Dire Manhattan #3 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Walking aimlessly
Past the sleeping terrain
Of Manhattan
At 1: 30 in the morning,
Thinking of a place
Where I could crash and burn.

The wind cradled me
And caressed my chaffed lips.
The cars were scant
And the smell of forgotten love
Flourished.

Alone, fretting in the dark
Underneath the stark abyss,
I was submerged in the pretentious
Moon-glazed concrete of quagmire.

I will never be the same
Underneath the Manhattan skies.