<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392335" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>New York Morning, Glimpse of Beauty</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sunrise, and I read the New Yorker magazine<br>its poems not of the city, even might<br>have written them myself, it seems</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The heat grows, I toss out the New York Times<br>Vade Mecum of commute, tired of the weight <br>of business and estate, pages that I never use</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now the New York streets, unforgiving<br>red-light-jumping cars, pedestrians running on<br>adrenalin and wheels, upending</div><div style="margin:10px 0">all the slow, a boy on crutches<br>baby carriage<br>scattered in their haste</div><div style="margin:10px 0">to steal a march upon <br>the New York morning sun<br>And even those possessed</div><div style="margin:10px 0">of lifetime wage employment can't resist<br>the caffeine-driven New York state of mind<br>the traffic cops, tabloids and terror plots</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I tell myself, look up, construction in the sky<br>precise design and accident, human-conceived <br>magnificence, the fragile towers, peaks</div><div style="margin:10px 0">beloved Chrysler spire, a beauty glimpsed<br>at last, the New York windows to the sun<br>and clouds where passengers no longer fly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Frank+Bana">Frank Bana</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392335" data-title="New York Morning, Glimpse of Beauty de Frank Bana" data-description="Sunrise, and I read the New Yorker magazine its poems not of the city, even might have written them myself, it seems The heat grows, I toss out the New York Times Vade Mecum of commute, tired of the weight of business and estate, pages that I ne..."></div> </div> </div>

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