“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
A city called Home
If I were blind the first question would be
Where,
then Am I?
If I were to listen I could not tell our places
apart
Your city sounds no different than my home.
When I close my eyes
to turn up the volume,
when I strain to listen in
the sounds become deafening.
I can hear your train
passing through.
I can hear the rushing waters,
through my fountain
or your pipes.
I can hear conversations
not for me,
laughter, underlapping rise and
fall
of voice-
a plane passes also
not for me.
I can smell the cafes, the local fare,
I can smell the clothes and bodies,
I can smell the trash and perfume spent
for no good reason.
The pots and pans,
footsteps, traffic, coming and goings
of whims from my window
it tastes exhilarating.
Smiles, and dings, rings,
jewels, tones, excuse me's
and gotta go's
seem exhausting.
Everything
I could ever need,
under one roof,
safely knowing each footstep
to the door, down the hall
to get the mail
to get back inside
(where I hide)
called my place,
or your City
Where
I am right at home
taking in
the blind view.
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