february in new york

snow falls like plaster on 42nd.
miles and miles of salted black rooftops
like ancient rivers, curving around the people.

and i wonder - if i stood here long enough,
would i turn to stone?
boys from new jersey cross the hudson
for just a peek at the concrete nipples
of a greek goddess.
i am sure they shape me as they would
any ordinary cloud in the sky.

maybe, if i think hard of paralysis
i can freeze this moment,
this winter desert of metal and stone;
a clenched fist accomplished in a hard city.

but passersby would feel sympathy,
and if i think hard enough to cry,
drops fall,
but it is rain.