The Big City at midnight -
  One dark street through the Heart,
The essence of the old ways
  Somehow understated and overpowering,
                Ever present.

Few decorations, only slivers of shine
  From well-chromed Model T's
Protecting mink boas and fedoras
  Of nocturnal creatures, long gone
                Down below.

Intoxicating, insisting notes of saxophones
  And of sequined Ella Fitzgerald,
Bathed in Havana and White Shoulders,
  Curl over sunken stairs and sidewalks,
                Bright white.

Shadows and yellow light from stone
  Buildings at rest for the evening;
Except the Times - precise machinery,
  Singing its dirge on the
                Great War.

Shimmering heat and moonbeams
  Finger windowsills, pushing aside
Newly planted pansies to mix the
  Evening show from tinny radios with humidity,
                Magic sound.

Dark corners populated by uniforms:
  Brown, white, blue - young enough
To be "our boys," old enough to be
  Worldly and save the world,
                Old Spice.

White gloves and pillbox hats glide
  Through the late-night-early-morning fog
To hang on a soldier's arm, if only for
  A moment connect with the passion and fear of
                The Unknown.

An unsure rain lightly mists the ground,
  Making the road and sidewalks glisten,
A surreal rainbow in the slick oil,
  And the couples seek cover under
                Striped canopies.

Down below, the jazz lovers wind up
  Their whispered, furtive debates on
Physics and physical attraction,
  Existentialism at its best - writers
                Take notes.

Red warnings glow in the east,
  Call for a good day's sleep,
And push bleary patrons to their
  Obedient cars, wheels in puddles
                Splashing, "Tsh..ah!"