Of A City

Stoic woman in furs,

snow white, standing

on the corner of Seventh

waiting for the light to change.

Black skinned woman in

the Heights, huddled by

warm oven because of broken

heater, unfixed out of neglect.

They connect, these two,

in a strange way that seems

to connect us all

in this vast expanse of land--

United States of America--

supposed melting pot

That seems unstirred.

Connections in profound

disconnect. And yet connections:

two notes, discordant in

a larger musical piece,

but two notes a part of the same

city

Living together in time that

seems draped with a grey cloth,

not an extended winter but

an indefinite malaise, usual

obligations lost to survival,

survival of more than just people

but of a city.

Woman in furs lives well,

in immaculate loft blocks from

the Guggenheim, celebrating

life every day because she can:

untouched by the downturn,

unfettered, regardless of the

slowing cog of the city.

She stands on the corner

waiting for the light to change

to get to a Broadway play,

Kaufman's new production,

bridging Time, that speaks

on the significance of waltz

variations by one of the one

greatest masters of music.

It's a connection to the

non-mechanical of the city,

the whimsy of erased voices,

of artists struggling,

actions taking on

greater depth than initially thought.

African woman in the Heights

struggling, unlike woman in furs,

because she lacks a well of money,

because she is a transplant to this country,

four years ago to escape

crimson rivers of her land

at the promise of a Dream.

But now that Dream seems faded,

speaking fluent English she has

a job that barely allows her to get by,

collecting every penny and dime in

mason jars on the windowsill in hope

of being able to get lights

for another month,

in hope of having a bit of comfort

just a little while longer.

Abused by a landlord consumed with

the buck, she huddles in front

of the stove but does not weep or

have blood boil because,

now warmed by the oven turned up to 450,

she thinks of where she came from:

in slums that make this look like

a paradise, of seeing her mutilated

cousin's body in the street.

It is the escape of unparalleled sadness

to a land where it is more tolerable,

emotions having greater depth than

initially thought.

And so they are connected

in another way:

discordant in the lives that live, but

living more complexly

than initially seen.

Unfettered by downturn, marked in

snow white excess, and yet

walking in the cold to support

the whimsy of a city that could

so easily become mechanical.

And the refugee in neglected room,

sparsely furnished, but still hopeful,

because of a past not easily read

on the lines of her face,

staring at the glinting mason jars,

looking for something more.

And so as Megastore closes,

and transit rates skyrocket,

and so many people are pushed

to a point where their bodies

seem too much to inhabit:

an atrophy of the soul--

we have two people, discordant because

of positionality, yet reflective of

two extremes of a city.

The person who will never have to struggle,

and the one who struggles because they

made a promise to always

strive for something more,

reminding us that that the malaise

of a city dominates

but does not consume.