six hours pass and yet the men need more
time to climb bridges to Manhattan's shore.
i have begun to lose count of the score
of bugs and mice and mats upon the floor.
the sound of morning clock and slamming door
are heralds to my architecture chore.
my dear siblings i certainly adore
i see and know that "we will watch them soar."
what now becomes of men who fought in war
and writers who do write of love and gore
when their old hearts, young spirits, shall long for
the days they embraced old pier fifty-four?