Times Square, Hotel

So many lives to be understood:
the lithe brown boy in his white up-do,
fixing his makeup so fiercely in Sephora;
the happy patriotic cowboy
with his stars and stripes guitar,
skating through the square
in his underwear;
that burning man,
black as a silhouette, with eyes like sunsets;
and the unregarded,
anonymous in rhinestones,
flapping ties,
and income-strapped intent.
Too many asked me what they meant.

Now, here,
the lamp is kind.
It shuts out day
and leaves a dark so deep
that when at last sleep drowns me in its dreams,
the only faces left
are those I need to see.

August 26 2019