One Poet Too Many

In the dank underground passage
between the L train and the 3
New Yorkers race East and West.

Midway,
tattered hand lettered signs
taped to cinderblock walls announce:

I write poems.
I am a NY Times published poet.
I will write a poem to order.

Crumpled on the ground is the poet,
a fortress of ragged clothes
surround him as he sleeps.

Oblivious commuters rush by,
not one wakes him to order a poem.

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!

The rush hour hordes
move in waves like schools of fish.

In the dim tunnel light,
to a wounded poet,
we may actually seem connected.

Zen Curb Appeal

Three rangy city pigeons
are bathing in murky water
pooled at the curb
next to a man reclining
on a discarded sofa.

He has removed his shoes,
lined them up neatly
on the cracked pavement,
reads a romance novel
with a worn ragged cover.

He is still and centered,
as though lying
in a grassy field
by an idyllic lake.

The filthy puddle,
the splashing birds,
the stinking summer garbage,
the blaring sirens
do not disturb him.

A lifelong expert on impermanence,
he knows that each of these intrusions
will disappear
well before
the final embrace.