Reading Myself to Sleep in My Hometown of Manhattan
( after Billy Collins )
I look forward to enlightenment as I am about to
retire to a bedroom in a master suite overlooking
the upper Manhattan skyline of lights that remain
burning while I plan to sail in a glorious sendoff.
A snifter of brandy helps to set aside anticipation
of watching fireworks at midnight from forty floors,
to put me on track the choice of leather I’ll read.
A soft swish of diaphanous curtains sway across
from stem to stern with a click by remote control
in a city’s lull of harbor lights and boats docked full.
The other sounds subside to permit I scan pages
while serenely letting me drift within the book’s
intent to take my mind and breath away up river,
and around the first bend of a fantasy solidified
as I exhale the way a river sighs and starts to drift
along the sultry wake of turning pages floating by.
To entice I tip into the underlife slipping on endless,
sinking into the luxury of letting go, the book to fall
as I travel through adventures that will never exist,
and the fish take me back as liners pass by Liberty.