Hotel 17, 17th St.

Pinioned by a Manhattan thunderstorm
I ponder a play of the richest man in the world.
Based on Escobar, his menagerie, demeanour and violence.
Just an idea, possibly too abstract, Huysmans;
Rejectable for an absence of humanity. And yet,
You walk the streets of Gotham, as I did this morning,
And the energy of wealth over nature, man over beast,
Assaults. So much, so new, so old, already.
Like a living Riveaulx. A culture perishing
In the act of its own construction,
Declaring: The greatest of the great is
Inflated, egotistical, doomed. Owned by
A hubris we only now understand.

I was caught outside when the rain came.
Sheltered beneath a second avenue canopy.
A Saturday street market. Did not notice at first
The watches that the stall was selling.
The rain got heavier. I looked at the watches.
The rain held. One caught my eye. I asked
The rain to stop, but it didn’t, so I bought the watch.
It has claimed my ten dollars. It was waiting
For me.

14.06