|Birds I View
|In the morning,
New York waits for me to lay down for the count,
Beaten and broken down.
A bird to his brother makes a big flutter about going to mass;
He can't afford to miss the loose circle procession over the
intersection of 56th and 9th ave.
I stand at the corner and understand their prayer.
New York is a reward best served before breakfast;
A connoisseur and forger of resilience.
I cross the street through the fog with a lift in my gait.
I feel good to be alive for my fight of the day.
My procession is getting up and my fight is my prayer.
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