The Beautiful Recession

My legacy is that I’m the one who hailed cabs
to Brooklyn, late at night. I hailed them with
the hopefulness of someone hailing a unicorn.
I’m the one who watched the view from
nighttime bridges. I’m the one who felt
butterflies when rising up the bridge in a cab,
rising higher and higher into the air, way above
horniness and stinkiness, up to where I could see
the tops of famous and infamous buildings,
all empty because mankind had gone
to make love in order to forget
the terrible lack of eternity.
Those were the days of a beautiful recession.
And I’m the one who kept finding himself
in the backseat of a cab, at the apex of a bridge,
seeing my city from the vantage point
of a bird looking for a place
to either shit or build a nest.
On my way to ugliness,
there was always the beauty of my
time on the bridges: tiny lights spread
in every direction, like Braille
only read by gusts of wind
brushing against the cityscape.
As my bridge descended,
I looked at the lit windows
of the buildings beside it.
Those lit windows were stoked
by people just like me,
who stayed up late, trying to
keep up with eternity, but fell asleep
because it was payday in their dreams.