Hope Street
New York has a street named after everything
I have ever walked past, pretending not to see.
Humans are traffic, trading scars.
I’d cross the East River, but it is only an inlet,
saltwater frozen for the winter.
This is a city weary of being told,
an old woman who just wants to go to sleep.
Although she is frozen for the winter
I will find a way to live through this season,
not quite frozen, not yet made of salt.
posted by Lilit Marcus at 7:44 AM
1 Comments:
There are many things to like about this poem. Coming at it from a diagonal, the Hope street reminds me of Los Angeles because where Hope and flower meet is the Bonaventure hotel. I think it used to be Bunker hill. Bunk Hope Flowers. As to the poem, I love the image of the city as an old lady and of course the pillar of salt motif. One shouldn't look back. Nicely done my Lilith-
J
Post a Comment
<< Home