Alan King
Quasimodo in NYC

Winter yanks her breezy hem
over New York City. I beat the streets
like a mad man haunted by what rattles
in his head,

or a mad man shaken by a Gyspy woman’s
loud “No,” when she snatches her hand
from mine. I’m a man leaving what he desires
at a hotel in Time Square.

And I might be scary the way insecurities
surface like warts, the way passersby stare
at the weight of what hunches my spine.

Maybe what I need is a poem
as pretty as Esmeralda,
but one willing to hold the head
of something ugly
and kiss it beautiful.

<< Back to Issue 14, 2010