In Suffern New York
Poetry tends to write itself
Above clandestine bars
Owned by old Russian
Immigrants

Aloof here with the warmth
Of a single lamp which made
The room look rusty
When I paid the bill
The city

Paper printed a memorial to
Richard Bosco, he was 34
Confirmed dead by his office
A final black and white photo
On the street

The current conditions are light
Rain, winds are calm in the Suffern
Forecast for the Hudson Valley
32 miles from the Manhattan skyline
I fold

My paper and move on from the lone bench
Off of Lafayette street. I leave behind
The poetry, the Russian room and Mr.
Bosco walking into the light
Rain