This Place

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.


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