City stone is mostly what my art observes
to find its way. From 1880s scroll and column
on my block I heard today what bell deserves
my notice, and for whom it has to toll. Solemn
though this business may appear, New York
fears nothing about death. It plays ping pong
with it, and life - can’t wait to pop the cork
to toast the art it spawns with bubbly ding dong.
Hence the pitcher and the lizard here, I think:
who find themselves in lurid hues a city bell
would welcome. They’ve drunk the drink.
Feeling well. Not in hell. Art’s rather swell.
It’s amazing how little things matter. They
don’t matter at all, and they matter the most.
Every life we bring on we will shatter. Hey!
But don’t leave in a huff. Make a toast!