Red Grooms’s “Ruckus at Grand Central Terminal”
In New York in the last century
everyone carried a lunch pail
with some Lunch Poems in it.
The taxis were yellow hippos
sneezing down the dusty streets,
shedding piles of checkers at stop lights.
Their drivers all smoked or chewed
and had something personal to say
about the pastrami in your sandwich.
Grand Central glowed with pink
and orange lights, it had a disco
ball, all statues wore drag.
Small dogs in sweaters, eyes bulging
from their skulls, oozed from the arms
of ladies in fur coats and jewels.