Never lacking in poetry,
like the crossroads
the city breathes the air undaunted
by the steam pipes and pavement
the tracks are clear
the lioness roars past dawn and midnight.
Shake the golden strands
from musty closets,
the punctured tires
from double parked emotion,
I am lost in an ocean of people
raised in captivity
always on the move
trapped in their timetables
in their time capsules
but each one with a dream
of mosaic tile and granite
time traveling to a place
tucked
in a cocoon
like the womb
harpooned
spooned
perfumed
attuned
to the heartbeat of the city.
No getting lost from here to there
in the grand scheme of things
on the main concourse the iconic clock
that holds the hands of time,
that write the poetry that is Grand Central.
grace notes: I find poetry in the architecture and design of places like Grand Central in New York City. So many people there, moving to the rhythm of their own poetry.
Thank you to the editors of Scrittura publication for being such a tabernacle of writing on Medium.
© Connie Song 2023. All Rights Reserved.
