For the one who never sleeps but must not show her exhaustion.

The myth of the city is that of the happy accident,
The big break, the impromptu genius made possible
By the inevitable but random collision of particles
Of genius within the island’s bounded space.

She promises the rush of sighting idols in their gym clothes,
Lures her pilgrims with the manic pace and up up up
Of buildings, stocks, your fortunes too (it follows)
By the ragged edge of South Seaport and winding Village streets.

She doesn’t like to talk about her upper body
Which is unfashionably square, no sensual curves
But a grid so tight even the unruly trees appear geometric.
Admitting her marquis lights flash predictably
And the sheer number of dream-chasers washed up on her curbs
Would only disappoint the fresh-faced suitor, still eager to uncover her fabled naked grace.