Poem Draft Week 13

 Some one please take this and  just reduce it. I need help.


Yesterday's News

I began to pack for our visit when:

I saw a refection in the store window, Macy, as

I surfed Fifth Avenue on my Chernobyl Computer,
You let my great smog television explode then
You turned my cotton gin to news again.

I took the escalator of my mind to the top floors, Macy,
I would rather have ridden the earthquake down to 
Your lobby or held you on the Staten Island ferry or embraced 
Your strange glasses looking for cold peace.

I visited you every third weekday before lunch, Macy,
Your tops were so roomy, lingerie at 6 in bed by 9.

I once looked over the Chicago metal stocking pan, Macy, $9.11.
I once smelled the pungency of weed, in your bathroom, but
You remembered the other sides of pungency,

You knew exactly what radio operators at Kulmhof ignored.

Once:

  I unraveled the penny paperback, before anyone dialed the number and
  I read the first smoldering memorials of the triangle bodies burning.
  You sold machines that made stockings before your store was born, as

  Your shirts became windows, you knew I'd see through them.

  
I was reminded of a day in my life, when I shot frames of you from a boxcar. 
I had my camera, safe in my hand, long before the ashes fell on St Paul's and
You weren't afraid then, Macy. You were shiny and old, but not afraid.

You posed for me in so many Christmas Eve postcards home, back then
You were so beautiful in red lipstick, ribbons laid out, smelling of Channel no. 5.

I loved you then before brown was the new black, what fun I had in Santa Land, but if

I go downtown now, I know bad morning sunshine will ebb in the wake of

Your missing twins and your brownstones will smell of rotten sulfur apples, and if

I go way past down now, I would leave you entirely, Macy, not the old

You, but your new stocks, our sad friend Liberty, and all that emptiness between us.

Macy, I can't come for a visit now, please don't ask.
Macy, of course we had secrets before Victoria was born.  
Macy, the factory fire and the Dakota were enough for me.

Macy, I know my century is gone, but this young one is tired.

I must unpack your suitcase, all the airports are closed.
Your just a picture on the mantle now, the foggy Zennith.
I see no parade just flickering residue, once purchased in 
Your cellar, September 12, 1991.