Follow a New York City street
beneath a January sky,
the steel-gray concrete at your feet;
an old church clock tower looming high
rings out the sudden mark of time,
the day half-waned and flying fast.
Though everyone ignores the chime,
one man shouts out as he goes past,
“Shut up, you bastard! Just shut up!
You took my father first, you took
my brother—” doesn't miss a step—
“and now you're taking me!” Don't look,
though you can't help but wonder if
he knows what no one else will tell.
Alone among a crowd that drifts,
he rails against the tolling bell.
His spittle flying toward the clock,
he comes on perpendicular
to cross the pavement where you walk—
falls silent, finished as the hour.
God bless whatever came of him—
the anguish that you can't forget,
the scene refusing to dislimn.
The old church clock is ticking yet.
Trinity Church c. 1900 By Unknown author – Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Yale University ([1])., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8097329
Kate Bluett 