Apple pies, roast beef sandwiches, cottage cheese
& PBJs fill automat windows behind casements 24/7,
reach out to New York’s blue & white-collar workers
teasing raging appetites with a glimpse of entrées
through transparent doors surrounded by chrome
size enhanced by double-pane glass; we’d gather
there to seek Holly Golightly lookalikes, flirt, gossip,
& exchange poetry during witching hours, always holding 
arms high above sticky tabletops & eating counters, 
still buying & consuming junk food as delivery trucks
rolled up & lonely, grizzled men mixed whistles
& sighs as they walked over metal subway grates
parting misty updrafts like medieval clairvoyants
appearing in kaleidoscope smoke enroute to restock
self-serve boxes with comfort food & sugary delights
of questionable nutrition—well aware people’s wants
usually exceeded dietary needs…real & imagined;
automat attendants sat us after replenishing shelves
gave us cigarettes we tossed to the ground
& ground with our tennis shoes while laughing
at their stale jokes told time and again, then disappeared
like forest fog curling up streetlamps into pitch;
we cherished Harn & Hardart fast meals far more
than cold, unreliable vending machine offerings—
almost as much as Grandma’s Thanksgiving feasts;
independence thrived as we dropped coins in slots.
selected items & devoured only what we craved
leaving uneaten foodstuff for transients to relish.
                        

Long, brown legs slip into Buffalo sandals
flash gold ankle bracelets delicately adorned 
with periwinkle shells and good-luck charms 
jingling, clanking, tinkling—ghostly outlines 
of youthful anklet tattoos above Alisha’s
articular cartilage suggesting an exotic history 
when mysterious hands gently tapped tabla drums 
hitting the daylan, centering te and teh strokes 
as Alisha accentuated rhythms with finger cymbals
filling the night with clashing songs, reveling till dawn, 
sleeping late, allowing extra hours to sleep and dream  
about her feet without leather barely touching earth: 
softly, tenderly, moving up tempo, changing pace,
welcoming noon with an intimate sringara mantra.
                        

Our longcase grandfather clock stood 
five and ninety years; the heirloom’s
gilded face, a rolling moon dial, assisted 
planning during lunar phases & dates     
like the Prague Astronomical clock.

Suspended in midair, an iron thread pierced
the skeleton key bow through a circular chain, 
jingled, ran east to west, shook on approach 
like a windblown kite tail snagged on a powerline 
stoking superstitions, captivating our imaginations.

Hollow, the skillfully forged brass shank stem, 
clefts & undercuts unlocked an oak framed glass door
exposing where its encasement wheel revolved,
a pendulum swung & I adjusted weights weekly	 
lamenting the cursed time piece resisted restoration.

Giant arms shifted. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. 
Punctual. Precise. Triple chime or concerto movements 
struck hourly, rang like chromatic baritone bells,
marked passing hours, days, years, decades, eras…,
announced vespers, respected vigils, measured youth.

Black plague on the horizon—no time to squander—
the towering frame would dwarf two lofty adults
one on the shoulders of the other, until December rains
cracked the skylight above it, shattering, collapsing
the majestic time piece like a decayed mine timber.

Our contorted faces, trembling & wet, resembled 
medieval parishioners wearing beak-like masks
pulling thwarted dreams like wheel burial carts
until tooth gears locked, the hallway orloj stopped, 
& freewheeling innocence ceased to flourish.