New York In Sixty Three

New York In Sixty Three
© Surazeus
2018 11 08

Her laughter is blue rain on fractured glass
that comforts me with steam of chocolate milk
when we sit together in timeless glow
of silence we exchange with smiling eyes.

We both came from small towns in the midwest,
hitching rides with friends to the New York scene
where we met late at night in Cafe Wha
to hear Joan Baez sing Blowing in the Wind.

I paint surreal visions of city towers
where giraffe dances ballet on Wall Street,
while she writes poetry like Allen Ginsberg,
howling over the rooftops of the world.

We make fun of movie celebrities,
wishing our romance was not just the same
as the one in Breakfast at Tiffanys,
so we have named our cat Holly Golightly.

Wearing black slacks and shirt with felt beret,
she dances weirdly around twilit room
while reciting her latest satire poem
about sad ghosts born from the nuclear blast.

Striking the pose of the glamorous queen,
she declares she is not Audrey Hepburn
nor Jackie Kennedy, but the farm girl
who feeds starving children with pails of milk.

I paint the farm girl with two pails of milk
while Audrey and Jackie in slender gowns
replace the stern Statue of Liberty,
with nuclear bombs instead of cigarettes.

The Beethoven sonata on the radio
cuts off and leaves us in the jarring silence
when the announcer says with solemn dread
President Kennedy was killed in Dallas.