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Chewing their outdated fingernails?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.