Mortality’s Countdown

Time

          Invented by man
          to fill empty places.

          Most dream easily,
          but in The City of handless clocks?

Ticking illusion awaits allusion

          As the subway empties
          and yesterday's leather straps fade out,
          their idle swing overhead but a shadow dance in balance,
          gray plastic molds give way to orange upholstered benches,
          Brooks Bros' melancholy shades,
          skinny ties beneath cunning eyes,
          waiting for hula-hoop hips.

          brush this...

          touch that…

          while Herald Tribune folded accordion style
          stretches forward from tortoise shell glasses
          standing atop Florsheim wingtips hugging undercarriage tightly,
          shoeshine woes for those with dough
          listening fearfully,
          feeling carefully,
          whispering morning prayers,
          pick-pocket blues
          stay 'way from me.

Ticking silently

          Into Kafka-like adding machine offices
          once thriving with hourly wages,
          now awaiting wrecking balls,
          their barren floors still alive with ether of shuffling ambition,
          the Mad Men walls now but cobweb mantles in limbo,
          commerce caves of dust-etched ghosts
          staring vacuously skyward
          for...

Ticking anxiously

          Ah,
          the Happy Hour
          that's every hour,
          for a bar is a bar
          even without people,
          even when chairs are stacked on tables
          and tired neon Pabst Blue Ribbon flickers down
          square-toed Fryes with brass
          peeking out from bleach-stained bell bottoms
          held up by matching brass belt,
          gouging attention away from satin shiny shirt
          draped over pocket-less-bun-heaven eye candy.

          Dollar a shot.
          Make it two.
          Hit me again ‘til after 3 AM
          and Time delivers
          the Klee-like night of color and clashing.

Ticking loudly

          42nd street once more than just a cross-roads,
          now a glittering cover for continued
          bright-lit consumption,
          waiting to become just another passage of time.

          Forever the Taxi Driver's lament,
          windshields mirror,
          slumbering skies invaded by
          glaring marquee lights,
          bulbs 1-5-7 burned out,
          2-4-8 & 9 blinking,
          its strobing stabs at eyes gazing out
          from a backseat respite.

          The checkered yellow stops,
          just another all-nighter about to wind down,
          emptying the cab of another memory in progress.

          From sunrise train,
          to ledger sheet hell,
          to Happy Hour escape,
          to bright lights dream-believe.

Ticking stops

          The Big Empty now
          at night train's end of the line,
          that place where war-torn stairwells lead
          through turnstile exits,
          up past thirst craved walls
          of more littered passages
          leading to…

          A nocturnal desert's oasis
          about to become
          a city's sunrise,
          where gull,
          pigeon,
          ferry boat,
          and sky
          meet.

          A surreal wonderment waiting
          today's empty places,
          standing free,
          ready,
          its memory made eternal by handless clocks
          while Time’s sentinels parade-dress for tomorrow…

          bemused.