We were white-washed by Times Square,
as if man had willed
‘It shall always be day.’
Spiting nature’s rhythms,
‘look what I made.’
You stole light
to sell creams,
your light doesn’t warm.
Mesmerised
by the blue screens
of Mad-men spun yarns
who build skyscrapers to block out the sun
then search for a south-facing window for one.
You sell your soul
yet barely make rent
but ‘…now you’re in nyew yoorrk’
as if geography is achievement.
The city that never sleeps
she eats
tourists for breakfast
and shits out immigrants,
for a few dollars more
even displays their tenements.
Only you could build
a monument to advertisement.
