Manhattan Polaroids

Ten years ago, I took a night school creative writing course at my local community college. The teacher was pathetic and not the least bit inspiring, but I did manage to produce something I was happy with. I wrote a series of short poems I called "Manhattan Polaroids." They've been sitting at the bottom of a filing cabinet drawer for several years. Now, I share.

without hesitation they hop the turnstile
night train to battery park
leather jacket clusters
beehive with attitude
threats flow like a pollock painting
and on a bench two brothers
cancer got their dad last week
they'll be home at sun up with the vodka mom ordered

--

east village rain
limo wipers sweeping
two girls in the back
laughing all the way down first
to a bar
to buy black russians
with money they shouldn't have

--

sitting silent all night deli
wound up tight
teeth grinding
buck ten in the pocket
right next to that photograph of the asian girl
he hasn't seen since seventy eight

--

riot girl wandering the aisles of the strand
pierced eyebrow nose and heart
boots smell of piss
a copy of naked lunch under the leather
she slides
her sister died in paris while drinking

--

december thirty fifty eight
you sat smoking on a folding chair
paul and philly joe locked on
you just listened
your trumpet still warm
herbie and bill stepped out
and you took the last drag
then somebody lit a candle
for you and the night and the music