Manhattan: 3 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

We sauntered past
The vigorous bars and the
Sleeping alleys.
It started to rain,
And you were anchored
To my right arm
In a clockwork fashion.
The rain was so gentle
That it lulled the Earth
And ate the petrichor
Away. The effulgence
Of the city buoy left
Vestiges and we followed them
And we were led
To a flower shop,
With the unabashed lady
Keeping a keen eye on you
And how your eyes glistened
As you lay your sight
On an abundance of
Holland Tulips.

You don’t have to say anything
Underneath the Manhattan tapestry.
You just have to look at me,
And I just have to find myself
Locked inside your halcyon-eyes
And your unfathomably bursting
Energies would bludgeon me
In my footing.
And you did look at me,
But you shifted to the Tulips
Once again, as if you’re amazed
By their prolix susurrations.
I was hidden pristinely behind you,
With Manhattan gorged
With your radiant balefulness
As you insidiously glanced
At the tulips,
And I signaled one bouquet
Of mauve tulips to the flowerhead
And she immediately handed it to you
And it’s as if you owned whole
Of Manhattan with that immense
Smile of yours.

You gushed in crimson taints
And Manhattan was red-handed
For making you ebullient.
Manhattan twirled as you
Spun in circles and you made me
Pirouette in a world of sluggish vertigo
And you kept on marveling at those
Splendid tulips, and you gave me petty glances,
And I kept on watching you.

The nights in Manhattan are different.
The nights in Manhattan are peculiarly
Beautiful.
It’s like seeing a dog and following his
Sad rendezvous at night
Or listening to the sound the arms of the clock
Make as you are haplessly waiting for somnolence
To arrive.

The nights in Manhattan are so beautiful
That it terrorizes a part of you, inside.