Saturday, December 12, 2015


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.'

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