Ghosts of the City

Ghosts of the City
Copyright 2024 by B. Watson

They say the city is full of ghosts.

Late at night
(When the moon is right),
They say men hang from trees in Washington Square Park.

In a lengthening dusk,
In a lonely glade in the Bronx,
They say Poe wails for his darling, his darling, his wife and his bride.

On cool, wet evenings,
In the melancholy end of Roosevelt Island,
They say you can feel the mad and sick gazing at the glittering lights of Manhattan.

I’ve never seen those ghosts
(Though the sadness on the island blows through me like a bitter wind…).
The ghosts I see are me.

A young man, set alight by the city,
Haunts Fordham Road and Bainbridge Avenue.
Strolls through the funk of aging sopressata in Belmont,
Crests the snowy hills of the Bronx Gardens, trailing a child in boots and a puffy coat.

Marches onward to the 30th Street station,
Swings his son high in the air,
Runs through the grass in Astoria Park,
Throws a frisbee in the shadow of two bridges.

Stumbles from the tremors beneath his feet,
Kisses his wife goodbye on the narrow platform of the 59th Street station,
Swallows tears outside Starbucks on Third Avenue,
Pushes past his panic on Astoria Boulevard when he sees her placid, empty gaze.

Haunts Bushwick bars, searching for balance in a can of Narragansett.
Seeks friendship in the eyes of strangers.
Finds kisses in Tompkins Square.
Feels hope spark new as rats scurry through the park.

Through it all, he’s rushing, rushing
Through Grand Central
Past Madison Square Garden.
Glancing up at light glinting on a building
Stars soaring on a frescoed ceiling.
Leaving ghosts on every block.