Even in November after daylight
savings time made passage dark
driving across the Brooklyn Bridge
to the city you’d think
it’s Christmas. Such lights.
A festival, a celebration of
people piled on people.
Herding with such instinct
even lemmings would protest—
sardines or smelt or bees or ants—
not to mention salmon.
What is this instinct gathers
humans carting toilet paper
and other needs from
markets and delis up stairs
to where all these lights shine?
We seep in in first gear
during rush hours, in to
The Big Apple.
We are many small worms.
Can it be the weathered, no-
nonsense face of Liberty’s our
stern Great Mother?
Here, an immaculate conception
with delivery in a stable: yes,
even that seems possible.
© Jane Piirto. All Rights Reserved.