West Fourth, Manhattan

I seem to run on empty very well.
Crawling slowly towards the grave,
On fumes that never quite run out.

I tried to stop today,
Tried to be still as the city,
Dirty and hot,
Swirled around me.
I tried to stand,
Silent and see the sky,
To marvel as I had when young,
At clouds and birds,
And dusky sky. I wasn’t in the way.
No silence came.
Instead the horns of cars,
A thousand voices,
Crashed into my ears,
And I was stunned.
Falling,
Pushed by the weight,
Of city noise,
Down to the pavement.
Of all those thousand voices,
That assailed my ear,
Not one asked in concern,
If I would be all right?
And so I sat on West Fourth Street,
Weeping for silence lost.

I seem to run on empty very well.
Crawling slowly towards the grave,
On fumes that never quite run out.

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