I was surprised to discover that this poem, published in Light verse, light verse in 2020 had never appeared on Montaigbakhtinian. The poem (in English only) is a favorite of mine.

God only knows if New York is still like this. I’ve hardly been back there since 2021, but I often think of the man (in the poem) “reading Revelations as he goes to work again . . . Of course these Bible stories: he’s read them all before, / Still, it’s the instant of creation he’ll be reading next!”

The photograph is by Weegee (Ascher Fellig, 1899–1968, shown above right), and is from the excellent collection of his photographs at the International Center of Photography in New York.

Over the years Montaigbakhtinian has included any number of poems and prose pieces about New York, to include Story of New York (Histoire de New York, Historia de Nueva York), Soho Selfie, and A beautiful free story . . . ¿hasta que je vous demande de la payer ?

New York is also: A love poem

And New York is also the bicycle rider,

Racing the tailpipe of an ambulance driver,

And thinking in this way he’ll run all the lights

Until – what’s this? – some Victorian pedestrian,

Crossing up ahead with old dogs and old tights.

She’s seen too much flashing, heard all the sirens;

For the sick no longer stops, nor hurries for fires,

Since of being inconvenienced she’s more than a little tired.

And sticks to her principles and knows damn well her rights

Blast all your horns and your blasted fire lane,

In fact it’s just here where she might seem in the way

That she needs to stop . . . pause . . . adjust – fix her skirt again.

And New York is the man on the busy street corner,

His hair growing thinner, his hair growing longer.

He’s not asking for money, he’s just asking that you

Linger for a moment in your hurrying home,

Linger just to listen to his little song.

His voice is not loud, his voice is not strong,

But singing he thinks of a lovely, disheveled lady

Who once, with a wink, said his singing drove her crazy.

And New York includes a strong-boned employee;

Who takes her children to school, buses and trains

Then shoulders her broom, for stones she must sweep.

Though first she must chat with people like me,

Old memories rekindling in the warming sun,

And we’re more than ready to thank anyone,

Who be it with cleaning or with some conversation

Helps lighten the load of retired relaxation.

And New York is the couple behind their cash register

When suddenly a customer expectorates their fish,

Protesting rather loudly about its awfulness,

And the outrage of charging for such a sorry dish.

As the couple stares blankly into the fluoresce,

Not ignorant of their savings, a child’s college future,

And not moving to tell the kitchen what it already knows:

How into the garbage no fish may be thrown,

Nor will their faces show either shame or regret,

As they reduce this man’s bill by the usual 10 percent,

While avoiding the making of any other gesture

Which might lead to more fuss, further upset,

Scare away customers, put police on their scent.

And New York is a man walking in the rain,

And reading Revelations as he goes to work again;

A tired black umbrella sheltering book and suit,

As his shoes they flap on northward, along Park Avenue.

And it’s not just Revelations; he holds the whole text,

Cradling thoughts of Eve, of Satan, Genesis.

Of course these Bible stories: he’s read them all before,

Still, it’s the instant of creation he’ll be reading next!

And New York’s a young woman with plastic in her ears,

Talking to her dad – her clothing bills he fears.

At LAX, she says, that’s where she’ll change planes,

But now she must – and, yes, expects they’ll talk soon.

After many other calls and spreadsheets rearranged,

While in the sun she tans, though with an idea or two

How firing and promoting she’ll sell more beauty goo.

And New York is the woman, shirt-dressed and blown-dry,

By a wall calmly waiting for her morning to arrive.

For decades she helped a doctor, with calls, bills and files.

While her schoolteacher daughter had his Jack and his Myles.

But few of us get to choose when and how we go;

For some it’s much too fast, for others too slow.

The sons are grown, gone away, and her daughter’s baby girl

In stroller now approaches, uncertain but not displeased

As grandma’s arms, grandma’s smile soften and unfurl.

Once upon a time perhaps . . . in Lily she now believes.

And New York is that man whose black leather elbows

Match his black headphones, his pair of roller skates,

The color of his bandana and all his many weights,

Which he raises and he lowers while his body it gyrates,

Except when he stops to hold his sexiest poses,

For any approaching tourist, with camera poised to notice,

And someday make go viral, this special New York star,

Now headlining alone on his special patch of tar.

— Poem by William Eaton.

Check out Eaton’s latest collection of poetry and prose: 4 billion eggs.