It’s hot,
very hot!
Summer and
the steam never inspired me,
so,
now,
even the
words are being melted out of my mind,
my fingers sweat
all over my computer keyboard.
There isn’t enough
water and ice to cool my body,
the jazzy
Central Park on the background refreshes the air,
and the poet
is having that rainy feeling again,
with thoughts
of winter
and some miracle snow.
He doesn’t
want to go anywhere,
the world is
no longer a safe place!
He
incarcerates himself in his muggy apartment;
and hope
floats,
floats the
words around his fingers.
Nothing comes to mind,
the dust
seats on the screen,
and insists
in solitaire of repetitions...
The game is
mystified with my own mood,
so,
through the cards contends the poet,
walkabout,
strike a key,
go further,
write a little more,
it is not
only this mortal silence;
the phone
won’t ring as well.
Therefore,
only dreams yet to come will end his pain,
to once more
conclude that what you want,
does not want you,
and not
always you will get what you think you want,
perhaps an
old song,
so the
controversy of life may proceed.
Formerly
again the sun rises,
and of he goes,
yes,
poets work as well…
he takes his steps
through the Babylon streets of Queens;
the number 7
train;
hours of
business,
lunch hour.
Again and
again,
walks amidst the same yesterday’s
people,
takes the
same train,
breathe the
same air,
share the
same rushing moments,
however,
expectancy is
the strength that lingers,
binding to
the next moment.
And against
all odds,
he tries to
make it distinctively,
breathing
positively,
looking up.
And so,
one
day,
from up
there,
looking down,
a miracle,
another day
will be revealed with unique words,
and life will
tell the story of today’s toil,
no more steps
of sole moments.
May the rain
fall,
and the heat
wave reign all July;
because,
there,
at his
window,
the poet
looks to his side,
grasping his dream,
smiling the
winter yet to come.