top of page

Big City Poet

Rooted in concrete

like some Manhattan trees

she looks up to heaven

sees only lines and rectangles


Sometimes she dreams

her poetry would soar

like some celestial angel

up into those mysterious regions

she glimpses occasionally


But then her gaze reverting

back to here and now

she rides in elevators

noticing how people avert their eyes

and on the fifteenth floor

beside a plastic potted plant


She overhears some cries

behind a door marked don’t disturb

and wonders in a quick poem

dictated to her smartphone

whether they are arguing

or making love

To Go Back To
Hit your browser's

© Johnmichael Simon



bottom of page