Steeplechase of Ghosts
Eastside... Among Manhattan buildings a moon still magic rises. The UN stands fluorescent watch, outside the big bar window as artificial as its lights. It's then spirits rise from the tops of buildings, looking like Blake's angels, engaged in a steeplechase of ghosts. I see their white shadows high in the night sky, when the air hangs heavy in summer's humid layers. At the bar they delay and delaying drink. They delay, unwilling to face the humidity and heat of short walks home to caves filled with air-conditioning. To sleep... while I wipe down the bar, and now alone, count my money out.