By Manuel del Valle

Beneath the asphalt-streets of
the Apple’s runways lies
illusion’s nightmares. There
the bright white way
is never seen
and
the passersby throw out cans
of Budweiser beer —
whose aluminum contours reflect the
night’s misadventures. A course of
bending hopes appears to those who
tread
the coldness of winter’s evening.

Upon the sidewalks there are
strewn the makings of a
story-line — the past regrets
of today’s young heroes. There
where the twelve refuse to wander lie the
broken bones of young innocence
wrenched out of shape by
SONY signs that light up
Midtown’s neon sameness — and
in the middle of wind-sown
streets each one steps
forward seeking to study
the features
of underage dreams standing next
to dimly-lit tomorrows.