Gondolas (NYC traffic)

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?

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