Back then Manhattan glittered
an island, a metropolis, a universe
Rhapsody in Blue soaring from every window
of every skyscraper, every brownstone
breathing romance.

A couple in silhouette,
Annie towered above you.

In those days
tough guys glared
from a billion big screens,
Clint Eastwood, Jack Nicholson,
guys who took a gut punch
and stayed silent.

You were nothing like that,
a mensch, gushing
wry one-liners
epic romance
the terrible and the miserable,
the beautiful, too.

Charlie Chaplin reborn
as a giant pair of glasses,
thick black rims
quintessential nerd.

A real man is
articulate, emotional.
Annie, nervous and talkie, in her jacket and tie
so feminine
announcing
our androgynous future.

Schlimazels, intellectuals
a mismatched duo
quintessential Manhattan
quintessential America
so of your time, so ahead of your time.

You wrecked it all,
stomped on your own glasses
stalking young girls
to remake them.

Perhaps that was always you
a sculptor
crafting souls
in your own image.

Finally, in a spasm
you sliced a potter’s knife
through the heart of your adopted family,
jagged gash through flesh.

There are no more heroes,
if Hercules were alive today
he’d be molesting young girls
between each of his labors.

But it was nothing like that
back when the world was fresh
with deep thoughts from a billion books.

That spring of hope
etched in black and white, in brilliant color,
in cinemascope with stereophonic sound,
back when Manhattan glittered with art and promise
when Woody met Annie.