September 15th, 2025
by Ben Shaberman
Dawn comes with crashing waves of doubt.
A sliver of grey peeks through hotel curtains.
I blink. Where am I?
Small me in the messy metropolis.
Down, down, down.
Proverbial descent to the bottom.
To the long wail of a siren.
The cracking of concrete.
A scream unfolding into laughter.
Italians don't make pizzas anymore!
A giggling beard holds up a skyscraper.
I go up the fifties.
Through smoke and horns.
The prestidigitation of a whistling policeman.
I arrive at the southern end of the six-mile loop.
Refuge. The air of horse shit beckons.
I turn right. Counterclockwise.
Into a river of Gotham's corpuscles.
A steam engine of a runner.
I puff and creak forward.
Finding heat.
Finding breath.
Finding rhythm.
By East 97th, a steady pace.
Rolling over benevolent hills.
Sustenance. Solitude.
Harlem – the apex, awaits.
From a ridge on my right, a dog.
Respectably furred in brown, beige, and grey.
It hurries knowingly across the road ahead.
The animal glances at me. I feel its wild.
No, no, no — not a dog.
Coyote. Our eyes lock momentarily.
Like a god seeing itself in a mirror.
For the first time.
But bound to our journeys.
We are gone.
Returning down the West Side.
Back in the current of souls.
The Park lights up in sun.
Flutters and flurries in gold.
I am sailing. I am still.
Neither here nor there.
About the Poet
Ben Shaberman resides in Washington, D.C., United States.
Read the poet's biography and Wax Poetry and Art publications
on Ben Shaberman's Artist Page.
This poem is also featured in Comet #6,
published in the Wax Poetry and Art Library.
Previously published in NYC Poetry Magazine:
Survivor's Guilt
by Kinsasha Stephen
NYC Poetry Magazine is part of the Wax Poetry and Art Network.
- Visit the main Wax Poetry and Art Submissions Page to see all opportunities.
- Visit the Wax Poetry and Art Library.
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