This poem started its life as a sonnet…

This poem started its life as a sonnet,

but grew into its own raison d'etre - 

just like poems used to be my secret place,

but then long walks became my safe harbor - 

a refuge from too many random thoughts.

I’d briskly walk down 23rd and cast

a furtive glance at the factory where

I once worked, abandoned when its widgets

ceased to shine; and the place is overcome

by snakes and mice – feeding on each other -

a fortuitous disassociation.

Now I walk a different path: the river

curves with the earth, and bends, and pulsates,

like blood coursing through America’s veins.

I cross the river and see images

of monuments, framed by highways and trees.

It closes with a line from 55:

“Which then of God’s favors will you deny?”