BRAD HILL
Blink

Alabaster streams of consciousness
Flow from the mind like
Premature ejaculations
Of Holy water,
Scorching society's epidermal
Layer of morality.

Rainbows melt into black
Droplets of wax,
Trickling down, eroding the sands
That make us all-
Leaving mud

For the children to wallow in.
Dead babies hanging in
The breeze like laundry.
Haunting melodies
Become national pastimes.

Prosthetic families of ideologies
Way past their time
Sing siren songs on serpent breath.
An illusion-
If you blink,
It's gone.

JUDITH LAURA
Washington Heights

The old man, small
in full coat and felt fedora,
stands on the park terrace,
a gray rectangle
looking down on the Hudson.

His left hand rests
on the black iron fence
high above the river
as he follows
tiny tugs
scavenging for ocean liners.

His right hand clutches
crumbs
he will release
to the birds
soon.

The breeze lifts from the water
spray that kisses his face,
not freezing
like tears on his lashes
in the old country this time of year
but simply vanishing
into the blue sky
where puffed white clouds chase planes.

A stronger gust pulls
at his snug
hat. Secure,
he smiles, turns
sits on a bench, his back
to the water
his coat covering his knees,
shielding his calves.
Pigeons land on the cement
and look to him
for sustenance

while on the other side of the terrace
beyond the iron rail
children climb granite rocks,
mountains in their minds,
and they, galloping cowboys.

Wind calms
gull glides
onto the terrace mid pigeon protests
and the old man tosses,
a bit at a time,
the crumbs
in four directions,
brushing the last
groundward with both hands.

As the birds compete for the scattered
meal
he rises
walks down the terrace steps
past the children's Western laughter
and heads toward the pavilion

where he will play chess and perhaps win
if not the game then at least
friends
to share afternoon tea
hot
in a tall glass
sipped through a sugar cube.