Sketch of a Poem
Written in ten minutes. Inspired by For Poulenc, by Frank O’Hara.
My first day in Queens:
Man, I was laboring.
Hauling my suitcase up subway steps at 46th Street
Everything I owned inside
Everything I knew behind,
Left in Manhattan.
My luggage skidded on the uneven sidewalks
I trudged along, hoping I was headed in the right direction.
I came upon an elementary school
(To this day I don’t know its name)
And its enormous playground caught me off guard.
You mean there’s space out here?
And I started to really see the houses
And I saw the people unlocking their doors
And I recognized the resignation in their contentment.
Somehow the street started seeming like the edges of Chicago
I could see my nephews playing on that swingset
And I thought, okay —
Maybe this could be home.