The Fury

Not fooled by the politics, I scratch the surface:
Ah, an abandoned subway beneath New York City,

a horse-drawn carriage glitters
(did they really glitter, inquires my daughter)

the glacier-marked stone outcroppings
in Central Park never knew Lennon well enough,

the foreign taxis and dutiful busses
sneer in the Casbah of some girl

with long legs in front of TGIF,
trash flies down the street,

a computer chip embedded into its microns
of thickness, helping the wind in its error,

the wind being almost human now
not like in the old days.

Imagine spending the whole day,
imagine devoting the whole day,

one day out of 365 on the Statue,
screw that, I do not welcome that

said some guy in French
to his travelling companion

adjusting his tie as befits the continent
and a punk flips him off

and continues scrolling his mp3 player.
I accidentally bump into him,

making him lose his train of thought.
Hating punks and the French

I am out to even out the score
in my favor.