Thursday, November 30, 2017


When the sunlight slants
and turns

a grim gray,
sobering the buildings—

and the city traffic
begins to make its music—I walk

and try
to keep a cool head

about my own ego.

must be a lot less impressive
than singing,

kind of the same thing.

And yet, I can't seem to stop
or ignore

the fascinating patterns
my own shoes make

on the concrete—
their consistent tempo

like a backbeat
to some contrapuntal fabric

which refuses
not to use me.

And that's how I know,
in my

innermost soul,
I am still

a beginner,
a student, just a kid—

who believes
what he was taught

to believe
about those.