Caught in the crosstown crawl towards Queens,

the cars suddenly become like ships in my fertile mind,

as the mammoths tow and sway slightly under the lights,

curving, straight-ahead, without crashing,

hovering at a snail’s pace, shimmering under the

golden light of the East, fog burning off the sky;

the storm is coming, salt is in the air.

Muscled men in striped, short-sleeved shirts,

singing “O solo mio”, are not necessary

to rev up the engine; my own engine  is still running fine

& I need to escape this traffic.
This bliss may begin

in the next two weeks during vacation,

but, in this New York minute,

can it also begin

now, & here?