Today I paused to consider
how odd it must be for those
born, bred and always living
in a city, say New York, and
to sill be a lover of poetry.
So many poets, from Keats
to Hirshfield will take you
into nature, bathe you in words
beneath a star lit sky, sit you
in a meadow, breathing air
that has never known the exhaust
of trucks and taxis idling
in seemingly perpetual gridlock.
But I did recall that while
in the heart of New York City
you can imagine looking up
between towering glass and steel
to see only a smattering of stars,
unable to see the poet’s firmament,
you can still lie back in a meadow,
imagine sheep grazing nearby
if you catch the IND A or D train
to Columbus Circle – 59th Street
and head east into Central Park.