he is a semi drunk office plankton
with the titled tie, on his sweaty neck.
wearing a worn out on the elbows suit
and a faux leather laptop bag on his back.
he was whispering something to the ear
of some tipsy with a percocet dullness in her eyes
woman in the business attire and Midwestern accent.
and the oxytocin moon was peeking into her welcoming cleavage
while vaguely smiling.
they were nervously smoking and giggling,
while standing by the “we saw everything” doors
of the casual Irish pub,
across the Pennsylvania Hotel.
(I never thought, that the angels may look like this)
and there was an illusion of harmony.
a rare tranquility in the mid-town Manhattan
of the late summer evening.