Bryant Park
Syche Phillips
I am watching a grandfather skating around the ice
At Bryant Park, holding on to his granddaughterīs hand.
They are wearing handmade sweaters, red and blue.
The ice is fake and white, a device of the city,
But I believe it, as I believe the pine trees that scream,
Yes! Foliage grows in New York City! Itīs fresh and clean!
Iīve taken two showers already today, but donīt feel clean.
I donīt think I can keep blaming it on the city.
I keep seeing your face, the memory encased in ice
Like I can still feel the vibration of the scream
Some people say ice is clear but Iīve seen it blue
I slowly pull my woolen glove from my cold hand.
The pocket opens reluctantly to admit my hand
The photo inside makes me want to scream
The storylines are old and faded, but still clean
The edges of the photo are stained a pale eggshell blue
My blood runs cold as I look back to the ice
And see the new disaster blooming in the city -
A lot can go unnoticed in the city.
A lot of people can get away from crimes, crystal clean
Over the happy laughter, I almost hear the man scream
As the little girlīs grandfather goes down on the ice
I donīt see him ever let go of her hand
As her red sweatered form falls down upon his blue.
Someone scoops up her body, crushing orange on blue,
And they try to hurry her off the ice
I hope someone has alerted the authorities of the city
And that someone else is holding her hand
That poor little girl - this morning she was so clean -
She hasnīt even realized that she should scream.
Finally her scream comes out of the blue,
And suddenly my hand feels so much more clean.
The pulse of the city keeps beating, strong as ice.
