On the Triborough Bridge, thinking of galaxies,
How Herschel said they strayed like garden beds
Seeding, blooming, fading, withering
Before his eyes as he stared back through Time,
I inch along in a cluster of April night
Traffic going home. Off to all sides,
The city’s constellations: Rachel’s Dress,
The Wineglass, The Cathedral Radio, Joe’s Hat,
The Wad of Money, Mlitman’s Yawp, Crane’s Leap
In storefront patterns and apartment lights.
Guarding the exit ramp, a girl with freckled hands
Holds yellow roses to each passing car.
I buy a dozen. Flung to the empty seat,
They toss and bend beside me down one spiral arm.
© Dick Allen