I’m hounded
By the sound
Of these confounded
City streets
And blocks,
And even walks
Don’t calm me down anymore.
I rejoice in the voices:
The city’s
Version
of surround sound—
Coughs, clearing throats
French, Spanish, Italian
A baby chokes on his laugh
And his mom
Exits the store with a cortado
And a quarter falls
From her wallet
The sweltering heat
Swallowing the zink
Of the coin hitting
The sidewalk
I hear
I see
I feel
I smell
I try to tell
The difference
Between what I know
And what is new
I sit like a sculpture
Silent and still and stony
These pigeons
(like vultures, shitting,
In sympatico
With the babies
throwing crumbs)
Thank yous and you are welcomes
Pepper conversation
Two lovers
too deep an infatuation
On their faces
A boy trips
On his untied
Lace
His mother stoops
To make two
bunny loops
To tie them again. . .
Here! the church,
Here! the steeple,
open the door
And hear a people
who walk
who weep
and eye
you—
[1] This poem comprises words overheard while I was sitting on a bench outside a coffee shop on East 88th street, Manhattan New York. I took all the words I overheard and scrambled the letters. I then used only those letters to write this poem. Each letter in this poem was a sound uttered by a human being.
Katherine’s day job provides ample fodder for her writing: she uses quotidian experiences to take down ideas, however and whenever she can. She lives, works, and writes in New York City. She received her Master of Arts in English and American Literature from New York University and teaches first year writing and literature at Queens College, CUNY and Marymount Manhattan College.
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