Where the Big Apple touches light

Broadway exhales before the crowd,

soft neon trembles down the block.

A cab turns slow at Houston Street,

its tires hush instead of talk.

The skyline holds a secret still,

as if the buildings pause to pray.

The Hudson shivers in its skin—

a goose in shades just looks away.

Feathers gleam in city gold,

suit pressed sharp, tie whispering “Honk.”

Perched near murals dipped in light,

on rooftops where the dreamers walk.

You’ve circled noise for far too long,

through subway sighs and corner steam.

But here, on 14th, the silence hums—

like memory caught in a sunbeam.

It’s not the hustle, not the flash,

not just the lights that split the dusk.

It’s stillness pressed between the rush,

a breath in boots, in black and blush.

The pigeons watch. The breeze complies.

The sirens stall, the moment bends.

A honk—a laugh—and then a truth:

this city breaks you just to mend.

There’s kindness in the crosswalk’s blink,

in bodegas steeped in midnight tea.

There’s grace in grit, and every goose

who dares to strut so openly.

So stand where silence starts to glow.

Let Broadway’s lights reflect your name.

Let every honk remind your soul—

You’re here. You’re bold. You’re Goose. Unchained.