Steeplechase of Ghosts

Eastside...
Among Manhattan buildings
a moon still magic
rises.
The UN stands fluorescent watch,
outside the big bar window
as artificial as its
lights.

It's then spirits rise
from the tops of
buildings, looking like
Blake's angels, engaged in
a steeplechase of
ghosts.

I see their white shadows high
in the night sky,
when
the air hangs heavy
in summer's
humid
layers.

At the bar
they delay and delaying
drink.
They delay, unwilling to
face
the humidity and heat
of short walks home
to
caves filled with
air-conditioning.

To sleep...
while I
wipe down
the bar,
and
now alone,
count
my
money
out.

Stephen Williamson