Dedicated to June
Allyson, whose a
long way from
Third Avenue,
in the Bronx.


The city, a symphony
of competing decibels,
orchestras conducted
by quiet subway trains
lacking an intermission.

When all are awake,
I can see the sun
sparkling like stars
sizzling at night.

The sounds of silence
shed new light,
in the brightness of
a darkened day.

When morning falls,
and evening rises.

The overture plays
at the finale,
and the finale marks
the start of day.

World entering on
center stage,
and adults waiting
in the wings,
as muted orchestra
starts to play,
and children begin
to work.

Their minds are filled
with cognitive feelings.

Their hearts are filled
with affective thoughts.

The conscious carries
the vibrations of the
mysterious, while the
unconscious mimes
the audibly known.

The abstract can
be seen, felt, and
touched.

And, the concrete
becomes invisible.

While the wind,
in stillness, can
be heard by
the deaf.

And, falling
snowflakes,
in motion
can be seen
by the blind.

In a loud,
earpiercing
concert of
leaves falling.

On a cold
and frigid
Summer's
day.

In a hot
and, oh
so humid
Winter.

When there's
Springtime
buds of Fall.

A symphony of
cars flying, on
an ocean's track.

Boat whistles
driving in a
busy sky.

Trains tap
dancing
in mid-air.

Dancers
acting
and
actors
dancing,
on Times
Square,
off-track.

As Fifth Avenue,
at high noon,
goes to sleep.

And, urban
sounds begin
to bustle, at
midnight,
to Gunfight
At The O.K.
Corral.

Where there
is economic
wealth,
and peace
found,
in boroughs
of ghettos.

And, there
is chaos
in the
solitude
of Central
Park.