1988
Glowing charcoal wafts
the sweet roasting scent
of old fashioned Christmas
down Fifth Avenue
toward The Battery.
Pop. Pop.
A metal box
hurtles to floor
One Hundred and Seven.
We sink briny martinis,
gulp iridescent oysters,
crack crème brulée.
Phosphorescent tail light trails
decorate the Expressway,
Zig zag bridges reach out
to garland the East river,
Manhattan pulsates glitter
and the torch of liberty attempts
to enlighten the world.
2022
Mementos ornament our minds
but on the ground
a grove of white oak trees
wraps a wreath around
absent names etched on
bronze panels.