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coffeeshoppoems
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Around February
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Around February I notice the lack of birds
and crossing the street to carhorns not even blowing at my impetuosity
all of it seems artificial.
Those giants that stoop over the horizon with glass eyes and steel bones
running deep in the earth, I mean to say, our skyscrapers,
I wish they would get off their haunches and march into the St. Lawrence
or take on a heroic pose, like David, or perhaps an Olympian discus thrower
and be surrounded by red, museum cord.
I wish the orange city lights would clean themselves off, and become yellow light
or than slim blue of the moon in July. Around February I get tired of looking
like a vegetarian.
The song of a bird would do wonders, I think. But the city has driven them away
They cannot abide the sound of car brakes wailing over ice. We are all indoors anyway
or buried in the underground city
waiting
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