[Poetry month has me thinking. You should think too. Write a poem. It'll do you good.]
A salmon-pink paper
The Financial Times, rests
on a newly padded metro seat,
the unmistakable slope of the Guggenheim Museum
adorns its front cover.
You, the reader, curl your shoulders forward
protectionist in your black wool coat,
(the uniform of men in this place)
you miss the curvilinear slopes
turning quickly past Gehry and
that which only could be described
as his sole masterpiece.
Building and shape is meaningless to me now
on this Italian train, this conveyor of my daily pilgrimage
through the underworld of a city and a state.
But I am hardly Dante.
And the train, it pushes through the tunnels
of this capitol city
the pressure of that motion exerts itself on us
as you stare forward
or they talk and muse and
ignore recorded announcements,
that voice preceded by the double tone
“Stand back,” she says smoothly,