For all his urban-militant apparel,
Chip Clark has always played the chump in battleŚ
a runner from the shit, a rotten shooter,
even a pee-er. Well, he chose today
to prove himself: he fixed his rifle barrel
on a surprised delivery-guy astraddle
a neon-orange Vespa motor-scooter,
jacked the thing and set out after you
and Orin in your green Cabriolet.
(He hopes to tell great Malachi McCann
the address where the two of you have gone.)
The sun is setting over Cliffside Park,
and twilight feels like something strange and new
and ominous because the grid is down.
Chip goes on motoring, his headlight dark,
behind you. As you make your way downtown,
he witnesses dense shadow in the squares
and at the major intersections flares
waved by policemen to say stop or go.
Safe driving is, it seems, the thing to do.
Tonight New York, for once, is going slow,
and Chip just goes on creeping with you through
obscurity, your loyal shade, your wraith,
and then you park at 6th and 28th.