West Village at 4 A.M.

by Jared Harél

The city that never sleeps
is sleeping fine.
No heads or headlights, no sign
of life. No me–first siren
gunning its echo,
or even a few NYU kids
ruptured into pairs.
For once, our billboards
have no one to hassle —
the blonde lingerie model
can’t get a date.
How long has she been up there,
stunned in her underwear,
eyeing SoHo
like it owns a warm coat?
A stray shadow
slinks past a trashcan.
The neighborhood bakery
smells like rain.
What happens next
is anyone’s guess:
months of darkness,
or an April Fools’ parade
plowing down our street.