View of New York

by Camilla Jean Welsch

Do I give him everything,
and not look back?

Back, at a million lights
that light up the night over Manhattan,
and all its attached surroundings?

Moving lights, stationary,
some brighter than others?

Because each light stands
for at least one person,
red, or white, or blue, in coloration,
because these are the colors of recognition
from such a height.

And do I yearn for another light more?
That means, for another person?
Small and twinkling?
Or am I really just mesmerized by a bridge,
or the perfection of a traffic circle?

I am always blue when I leave Manhattan.

It is summer,
and earlier I sat
over an al fresco table
in Brooklyn.
And the night’s heat
brought the din of voices together,
but the breeze
blew togetherness too much apart.
It was a place estranged from Manhattan.
And I was estranged
from the man blowing away from me,
across the table,
though the merengue music
spoke to him otherwise.

But now, it is later,
and I have parted from La Guardia,
and only the water is truly blacked out,
save for one lonely boat or another.

“In any case…
the view from here is superb…”
says the former Manhattanite.

And saying so,
touches the arm
of the stranger next to her.

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