Writing King Kong by Robert Seatter
It’s where I stop in my daily walk,
at the corner of 5th Avenue, 33rd and 34th St.,
budge that obstacle against my daily sun,
blink away its shadow. The Empire State Building –
just a giant toy, a large crick in my neck.
A version of that ceaseless night train
clattering along its broken tracks… another train,
another robbed and sleepless hour.
All the things that elude me stay in my mind,
stick to my pen. Love given is forgotten, a bed I lie on
to dream my dreams of somewhere else,
but that girl in the penthouse, on Hollywood Blvd.,
with her faraway small teeth that make her
faraway perfect smile, sharp as a photograph,
I could carry forever in my suit breast pocket;
that elusive novel inscribed with gold letters,
‘Merian C. Cooper’ along its spine,
which waits in the bookstore on 33rd East, 17th St.,
it never flickers out inside the dark;
or that sleep of mine…
So I’ll move his black arms to open the latch
of her doll’s house window,
push the tallest tower into a puff of dust,
or – before that – make this detour
to twitch the train off its airfix bridge.
Now there’s sleep and sky and her perfect smile
for me. Could I write it any better?