A budding actress, a starlet in scarlet, enters Maine Street,

with a chattering, ‘Broadway’ smile.

Her blue hands clapped, wildly, as if

applauding the opening night

of the latest new big hit musical show,

trying to sting each finger back to life.

Millions of feet puncture holes

in the virgin snow, on a New York winters morn,

like a magnificent herd of wilder beast,

stampeding across the open savannah,

of a Central Park, bathed by a fading neon moon.

A few blocks away a xylophone of icicles,

cascade from the broken gutter

of  a rundown apartment building,

on the corner of East 44th Street and Maddison.

As the sun seeped through the concrete Redwood’s,

tear shaped droplets, wept from the icicle’s face.

As they fell, the film of each watery bead,

captures a sequence of stills,

like scenes from a 1930’s movie feature,

before shattering into a thousand broken dreams,

on the cold harsh sidewalks of reality.

A shrill scream pierces the noise of swarming passengers

and the hissing of a steam train brakes at Grand Central.

A body has been found frozen to the tracks,

red dress, with blue hands clasped to a torn script.

I guess her part of New York City sleeps now.

©Philip Golding 08/09