A scrapping at the window–
a pounding at the door.
The rhythm flows,
a fiery toxin in my veins.
The slaps of feet against the street,
signs screaming, “Do not walk!”
and “Construction Ahead”.
Mothers chatting on their Blackberries
while Spot walks little Johnny.
Ketchup lands with a squishy plop
onto street-corner franks.
This place, with its pulsing sounds
and get-up-and-dance philosophy;
This place where one man’s headache
is another’s Mozart;
Here there are subway stage lights
and troubadours for the opening act.
Oh, this place where anyone
could be a poet.