POETRY NOTEBOOK
I've got my poetry notebook
in my hand, holding it open towards
the sky as I sit in 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 day-dreamed 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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