Canyons

The walls are closing in,
tall, imaginary and real,
they loom overhead,

and you wait for the ambush,
wait for the fall of night, wait
for the chance to escape.

The walls are closing in,
and no one but you
seems to notice.

There is dancing in the street,
music, beggars, more from habit
than need, hawk their weakness
and count their money in the shadows.

Here and there, there is nakedness,
both of skin and souls, of hearts
ripped out and left open for vultures.

Here and there, there is love,
a hand held, a sweet smile,
a kiss, slow and tender.

The lights here are bright,
ever changing, ever challenging,
a barrage of color, light, culture, skin,

music for the eyes,
promises without context,
one competing with the other
for a moment of your attention,

hoping to make you forget
you are in the canyon,
and the walls are closing in.

About this poem

I was working in New York City yesterday. I love my trips to the city. I love the energy, the variety, the barrage of images and thoughts and hawking of wares and the people – every stripe and type and emotion imaginable. Stay in one place in Times Square for an hour and you will see everything humanity has to offer.

At the same time, after a time in a city, I am ready to leave, to come back to a place of quiet, and let it all sink in.

Tom