new york in august

on the steps of the post office new york sits,
multi-faced, colorful on the steps of the post office,
breezing deep the buzz and the hum of the august street,
unsuspecting it’s only fortnight to autumn.
on the grass of the great lawn the city lay,
on the green submissive grass of the great lawn.
the towels, the chairs - they’re all part of this bright essay
written by them or august? you’ll never know.
the city is ruled by august, a wise old man
whose age is longer than anything they remember.
it’s in past and present and future, it’s now and then.
it’s like one of them with its stormy temper.
make a stop right here and take a deep gulp
of air, of august. with your eyes take a picture.
you can’t tell if that’s an addiction, an illness, a cult,
but right here you are a different creature:
your arms and your nostrils are wide open to
perceptions of august, this city, its streets and people
on the steps of the post office. all around you look
and all the sudden the book of your life is simple.

the white curtain of clouds is drawn over the sun
and with every day the sky gets closer and closer.
it’s only a fortnight till there’s no august, and when it’s gone
you’ll be back as you were, only more understanding and softer.