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?