The orange cones are for protection, 

Showing passersby the holy direction. 

But here I am inverted and splayed, 

In dire need of that reflective aid. 

No one loves a broken umbrella on a rainy night, 

Dead on the sidewalk like a crashed satellite. 

The swish of water beneath rolling taxis tires,

Ferrying human souls to their greedy desires.

I used to gaze at the gauzy clouds and knowing night stars, 

Now I’m mocked by the passing lights of whooshing cars. 

 New York City is cruel in the rain,

When everything glistens around your pain. 

The irony of my discarded fate is easy to pass by, 

Because trash is invisible to the unfocused eye.

[More NYC Trash Stories: Bedroom, Clothes, Culture, Furniture, Food/Drinks, Personal, Pets, Tech, Trash Cans, Travel.]