Manhattan Poem by Roger Hudson

I

Banshee wails
disturb
jetlagged sleep

fra ctu red

is it real is it dream
as I struggle to recover
in mid-afternoon
from transatlantic flight
body clock adjusting to time leap
on floor-laid mattress
in friend's storeys-high rooftop apartment

its air-tight
alarm-taped
treble-locked
security
penetrated

from

echoing
canyons
below

by keening
siren screams of

police cars
ambulances
fire tenders

over drone
drone of ever-flowing traffic


II

Wind streaks through my hair
across my cheeks
skyhigh fairytale light patterns
of barely silhouetted skyscrapers

sweep past

and clinging tight I turn my head upwards to look

awed
excited
thrilled
frightened

in weird night-scape of still-jetlagged wonder
from pillion seat of Barnet's Vespa
sweeping swooping
leaning looping
round curving roads edging
the island of fame and fortune
riding the wind
to experimental dancedrama
in docklands warehouse
less thrilling

less scary

less striking

less WOW

than the never-ending drama
of nightmare-and-delight
that is
the never-sleeping city