"Dead Heels"

"Dead heels"

pounding away

   like church bells.

 The spotlight noir

      shining on bright,

collared shirts torn;

puddles sound like wind-chimes

during torrential storms' hell-fire.

Dried in the morning,

gray, sunshine-covered

turf,

basketball hoops

and

chain-link fences

during jazz-coated Harlem,

 stride piano players

play to the busy-bustling

of Old New York.

      Sidewalk surfing

to the pin-striped parking lot,

Awaiting me,

    a vast void of

dead heels echoing.