Symphony
I wouldn’t call it a symphony, This cacophony of American noise. Where is the conductor? Sitting up there on a throne of dials Wearing a silken tie? It can’t be a dance, This city of erratic motions. Where are the ballerinas? Pushed aside into bagel shops Chewing their outdated fingernails? But can I manage a shortcut To the ocean, to the park and its pigeons? They practice a rhythmic beat Far deeper than time—giving me The silence that renders all this noise Incomprehensibly absurd.
