You play your harmonica and we stop
hanging,
notes off your stave.

We are the audience of wastrels. With nowhere to go on a Friday night we stand separate and alone bound still to the strains of your harmonica. Its sadness magnified – and echoed, high notes...

Two girls follow a pigeon – in
combat boots and black mascara.
Follow it and
harass it. Harass it unyielding
against the kaleidestrobing lights
of Broadway and 42nd.

“I lost my cigarette!” he shouts
and runs after it. Rolling,
brown and white,
clean and contained,
pristine – against dirty black concrete.

She stares with her mouth open, holding a Whole Foods bag. His magic amazes her. Even Times Square Elmos rest at night: They sit on red metal chairs, finger their phones. The sign says “I want...