Street Ballad by John Doyle

It can’t be New York,
can it?
my raincoat flaps like a
stars and stripes,
as saloon doors in coastal winds;
Men called Benny in black berets
watch Cadillacs sizzle on light-splattered streets,
the streets smaller than an emptied fist,
and un-heeled skirt-suit women attach sneakers
as they recline from cabs,
the street is small like shattered bone, and peace
is wrapped in patters of silence,
the silent silhouette freedoms of night;
Neon drapes Fr. Rossi’s confession box –
the Hudson’s ships are howling from emptied stomachs
where the waters gush, and lights tell me
someone, something, somewhere,
hums this same song,
the street was listening, I felt it breathing…
Everything looks like fire
when the orange and the rains implode,
everything becomes red, and the music grabs my eyes…

john-doyle
John Doyle Bio: The only good bio is a bio strung-up outside some gold-prospector’s wooden shack with his dog Jake sniffing at its last remaining remnants of sanguine flesh; So I will keep it simple, I’m from County Kildare, Ireland, and I love nothing more than stumbling across 3rd Division football games in Slovenia or Belgium on a Sunday morning as a welcome interlude while trying outsmart fellow bio hunters.
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