Day Twenty-One (late): Writing a poem in the style of the New York School.
You come to my mind, then,
as the air in midtown -
toxic and withering,
filled with too many consequences,
too many wrong turns,
and not enough choices.
A death in the family,
and some wonderful rebirth -
trapped in the monotony
of rush hour traffic
and screeching brake pads -
the Columbus Circle of life.
And it has always been official,
not a chance, not a doubt.
Not a second before the lights
all turned to bloody red.
Not a second for me to think,
"Well, maybe, just maybe..."
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Bombay Bicycle Club, Leaving Blues
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