when I'm in the city
listening to the snaps and saxophones,
harmony and enchanting diction
of a Mr. Frank Sinatra;
when the sun is dim
or non existent;
when the iridescent lights
flickering off the skyscrapers
the small people
walking the streets
in their big shoes;
when the music pumps through the radio
overflowing my ear drums;
when the old, stiff music clubs
are softened by the moon's glow,
shining like my heaven;
when we approach the moment
at the end of an album
and we've hit a part of town
without all the lights,
and the sound diminishes,
and the only thing present
are our breaths, our heartbeats,
the sting in my throat of
the imminent tears
cajoling my body to spill;
that's when I become a city girl,
omniscient, calloused, and cynical.
c.d.
a/n: I write about the city too much, don't I? I wrote this while listening to Frank Sinatra.
YOU ARE READING
1:46 a.m.
PoesiaA collection of poems, most written at extremely late, or should I say extremely early, times of the day, when my mind can truly bleed its thoughts onto paper.
