New York City is nobody's fault.
It sprouted here, one building at a time,
Then thousands at a time, till finally
It came to be this glorious hell it is.
Don't blame the Dutch; they only wanted
A place to park their ships.
The Brits had little more ambition, but
The city itself had its own plans.
Just look around you; does it look
thought-through?
Is this a city you would stencil out?
It's a tumor, an orchid, a still-happening
accident,
Reckless and unapologizing,
Flaring up like some outré lichen
On, across, this once-innocent island.
Sure, there are signs of intervention –
Parallel streets, a graceful park.
Don't let them fool you; they're the trellis
that
The hungry kudzu greedily consumes.
Nothing could be more human
Than all this gruesome, unintended sprawl –
Whose knifelike spires affront the sky,
Whose roots hook deep into the meat of the
earth –
Nothing could be more appallingly perfect;
Get out, get out, if you possibly can.
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