New York City, as autumn comes.
Even in the city, there is colors abounding.
I sit under the statue of Nike, goddess of victory.
A face still charms, lost to time, kept in bronze.
Jet fighters fly overhead, leaving contrails
to slice up and divvy up the sky, between us, them.
The sky is not ours, just taken, filled it’s whispers.
Even The Church, puts God aside in his heaven.
Nike, with her laurels and scepter, she gives medals,
but does not mop up the blood, or heal us in the winning.
it’s autumn, and even here are colors, and the sweetness
of the season sleeping out in the open, while we eat our young.