I've got my poetry notebook
in my hand, holding it open towards
the sky as I sit in the bright sunlight
at Madison Square. The statue of
Admiral Farragut is over my shoulder.
He knows nothing, of course, of any of this -
like some timeless dead man anywhere, now
he is just a statue; no whistles, no bells.
A few birds whiz by - their swoop
defines my daydreamed arc.
The only words I come up with are vacuous:
'I'm leaving the city at 9:45,
got the hots for you baby,
it keeps me alive.'