Keegan Lester

Poem to New York

 

 

The race ends

 

under caution.

 

Everything I say

 

Saturday night

 

sounds didactic

 

Sunday morning,

 

so won’t you

 

just hold my hand?

 

Let’s celebrate

 

the game

 

of connect four,

 

the plastic disks chuting

 

their plastic clunk

 

landing on top of each other.

 

The sound

 

is so satisfying

 

I think we

 

could become clams,

 

pearls replacing our hearts

 

always only a bus

 

away from china town

 

where the dead

 

will not follow us.

 

Make me malleable

 

and tough and the world

 

a phantom of clouds,

 

Picasso. Picasso, are you

 

outdated? Who is

 

the person

 

in charge of that

 

these days?  You know,

 

looking at something

 

shifting its shape

 

until its outsides

 

more closely resemble

 

its insides.  I created

 

a dance called

 

the elephant trunk.

 

None of the kids are doing it,

 

yet. I checked dance halls,

 

fire escapes and dirty places

 

housing romantic charm

 

like Berlin in the 50’s

 

or a seven eleven bathroom

 

this afternoon. I’m sick

 

of that boring poetry

 

that has fifty ways to describe

 

death, love and de-leafed trees.

 

There are things we can do

 

with our arms and legs

 

that will make us look

 

like smaller people,

 

that we can rename based

 

on the expressions of our face

 

when we almost get to where

 

we are going. There are so many

 

things I was unsure of

 

until I went looking for them.

 

 

 

 

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