In New York, bus drivers are the only happy men. They can close doors on people with impunity, even as it rains, and drive off. Nobody objects, newspapers set before their faces in their seats, reading in their spare time of worse news yet. In New York, when you say Please, persons are suspicious that you intend to rob them or they answer politely as if to let you know they'd rather rob you first. In New York, to enjoy yourself, you must first beat yourself on the head with a cop's club. Reeling over the streets, leer at the dance hall photos of girls undressed, for the rent in a silent room above a flashing neon that reads Drink Blotto! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CIVIL WAR by CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY TWELVE SONNETS: 5. GLAD SEASONS by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE BLACK FOREST ACOST by KATHRYN BLOOM ON TURNING A STONE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN SECTION GANG: NIGHT by NORMAN BOLKER HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 30 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |