Birds I View
In the morning,
New York waits for me to lay down for the count,
Beaten and broken down.

Every morning,
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.

September, 2013
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