They call this the city that never sleeps,
And yet, I walk down this street alone.
There are no crowds here. There are no cars.
There is no noise pollution that screams in your ears
When all you want is peace and quiet.
There is nothing but the blue night and me,
Walking on cement between glass and brick towers.
The loudest sound to reach my ears is the echoing taps
Which my shoes make against the sidewalk.
The rest is the low humming of something far away I can't identify.
And every so often, the dull roar of the unknown is drowned
By the sirens of police cars as they careen down a street I can't see.
I'm startled slightly as the alarms shriek like mournful banshees
But I continue on.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets.
I pass from the ample light of the streetlamps
To the few shadows between the yellow circles.
The wind caresses me with cold hands before bounding down Broadway.
Again, I am alone to hear the hollow taps
Of my feet, my head, and my soul.
Suddenly, I hear laughing and loud voices nearby.
I don't have to look to know that one of the popular nightclubs had just let out.
I turn to look at the people behind me in fascination,
Watching them flow into the empty street
In their drunken glitz and glamour.
Some are sweating through their fashionable makeup after a long night
Of dancing, drinking, and making obscene conversation.
I imagine being with them, but I do not follow.
I turn back around and continue walking down the empty streets.
I look up into the dark blue sky
In hope of seeing stars, though there are none.
Even the moon, the silver queen herself, seems to be missing
Among the brick tyrants lining the streets.
No wonder few people in the city seem to have hopes.
The others have no stars to wish on at night.
I realize that my eyes and my stomach are empty.
All the beatnik cafes are closed.
Their strange window designs darkened for the night.
It's far too late for a cup of joe.
My only companions are the brick buildings and the steel ones.
The new mingling with the old.

There's litter here and there: an empty Starbucks cup
Or a page from yesterday's New York Times.
It's hard to escape that stuff.
And yet, this place seems cleaner and much more peaceful now.
Maybe it just seems that way because it's devoid of poor beggars and snooty lawyers
And generally people who rush around and pretend they have someplace to be,
Save for one person who still thinks they have some obscure place to belong to.

That would be me.
Walking in and out of the light and darkness,
Looking for a sign of life for an indescribable reason.
Any sign of life would do.
Even a taxi cab with a driver so fresh from India
You can swear you can still smell curry and Gandhi on him.
And yet, still I walk into the Manhattan-blue night,
Past the signs for some unheard-of singer
In just a few black scraps of cloth shy of being inappropriate.
Past the dark, dirty alleys hiding those who dream simple dreams
And past the buildings hiding those who dream the impossible.
Past Broadway and Chinatown, filled with the strange aroma
Of cigarettes, exhaust pipes, and egg rolls.
Meandering until I find the dark waters of the Atlantic Ocean
Cold and salty, but not what I was looking for.
So I turn back and wander back.
Past the empty subway stations.
Into the dark blue night of the city.
Trudging back to an unknown starting point.
Still in awe of the beauty of this city that sleeps.