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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outdated?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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