Midtown, Late March
Nestled amongst the spires and scurrying
like ants
for another hour, at this hurried
pace, they who can’t
stop or rest, who in their haste for success, courier
around deli sandwiches pent
up in paper bags with their worries
until someone, like art, who meant
this morning to select a shirt where nary
a fold didn’t wend itself this way and that,
passes, and like dumb bass to a lure
they hook around to sneak a gander,
stop dead in their tracks (single or married,
like serfs or kings, unevolved or gents),
something inside them hurries up
to stop and gawk, be it from the walk, the fold, the tent
shaped furrow flowing back and forth, the rare
site of red cloth, as to a bull. The ants
can find nary
a reason to wake in this city. Still can’t.
But perhaps for her.
–
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