New York, 6 A.M.

The city uncurls like a leaf.
In its final black hour
I hunch in a taxi cab
Shooting through one of its tiny, dark ridges
Out into the crackle of morning.
In a few minutes
The sky will open and share
Its promising pink
To every child
Who will grow up into a stony businessman
One of the millions in white collars
Silently fighting for space on the sidewalk
And I will be expected
To forget all this