New York: 1992
The building hums like a stationary locomotive,
Steam from its plant billowing up and folded into the clouds like a pair a poor man's sheet.
They trap its lights; the whites go up, the putrid orange of the mercury street lights, down
Anchoring heavy shadows into the mud-blackened snow banks on the street.
A pane of glass insulates me; it takes the piercing chill like a cold mug
While the diesel motor of my mother's car slowly sputters.