by Eleanor Goldfield
On my way to more pizza, bagels and “fuck yous”
that rise like subway smoke from the depths of a contradiction –
An artistic cry in a capitalist high rise –
a pantomime of life
in dead veins of the gentrified.
The quiet behemoths –
the steel sentinels –
watching over our folly
from purse strings of empire.
This is part of a new series called “Poetry Plates” that I may turn into a book…
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