The Poem is Everywhere

I.

In the distance there’s the sound of late-night construction,

passing cars, an airplane flying overhead, the wind rustling

thrown out plastic bags and paper left on the street…

 

There are the stars, the moon, the clouds, the city skyline

with their towering skyscrapers stretching after a long day’s work,

the pedestrian at the street corner lighting his cigarette…

 

There’s the smell of garbage, of piss, the fumes from the passing cars,

or the scent of fast food from the McDonald’s across the street,

the perfume of the lady walking past you on her way home…

 

There’s the chill that permeates through the fabric of my jacket from

leftover February winds that have managed to linger through until March,

the unsteady cracked pavement at my feet, the heaviness of the night on my shoulders…

 

II.

All these fragments of the night

invade my solitary journey

from that party to nowhere in particular

and offer themselves to me

to be woven into an image

of my innermost thoughts.

This city reveals its every facet,

each one ready to be turned

into a metaphor.

 

The poem is everywhere.

 

As long as I feel,

as long as I know the language

that bridges this world

and my heart,

the poem will come to be.

 

The poem will not be denied.

 

One thought on “The Poem is Everywhere

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