From an overpass in Jersey tonight, Whitman’s Manhattan to the eye Is a galaxy of neon, glittering and Beckoning low on the horizon.

The solitary heart, ignored all week In the bath of work, starts up its Broadcast, its barely audible beep beep, As its cynical friend, the hard mind,

Given to hard living and hard drinking, Mutters in irritation, “Bloody idiot, doesn’t He know that to be heard in that city Of twelve million, one needs to signal As loud as a shrieking plane entering glass?!”