For David Freedman

I read somewhere



that if pedestrians didn’t break traffic laws to cross



Times Square whenever and by whatever means possible,



the whole city



would stop, it would stop.



Cars would back up to Rhode Island,



an epic gridlock not even a cat



could thread through. It’s not law but the sprawl



of our separate wills that keeps us all flowing. Today I loved



the unprecedented gall



of the piano movers, shoving a roped-up baby grand



up Ninth Avenue before a thunderstorm.



They were a grim and hefty pair, cynical



as any day laborers. They knew what was coming,



the instrument white lacquered, the sky bulging black



as a bad water balloon and in one pinprick instant



it burst. A downpour like a fire hose.



For a few heartbeats, the whole city stalled,



paused, a heart thump, then it all went staccato.



And it was my pleasure to witness a not



insignificant miracle: in one instant every black



umbrella in Hell’s Kitchen opened on cue, everyone



still moving. It was a scene from an unwritten opera,



the sails of some vast armada.



And four old ladies interrupted their own slow progress



to accompany the piano movers.



each holding what might have once been



lace parasols over the grunting men. I passed next



the crowd of pastel ballerinas huddled



under the corner awning,



in line for an open call — stork-limbed, ankles



zigzagged with ribbon, a few passing a lit cigarette



around. The city feeds on beauty, starves



for it, breeds it. Coming home after midnight,



to my deserted block with its famously high



subway-rat count, I heard a tenor exhale pure



longing down the brick canyons, the steaming moon



opened its mouth to drink from on high ...





