Washington Square Park
Among the trees filled with silence,
He whispers to me “we should go,”
The sun is sinking in the sky,
As footprints are filled by the snow.
We make our way past the fountain,
Filled not with water, but cold stone,
And through the rows of white benches
Without you, I would feel alone.
As night descends upon the day,
We hug for warmth against the cold,
Miles still ‘til home, I’m content
Only if I have your hand to hold.
(In the style of Sara Teasdale)
The Terminal
It’s a place I’ve never had the courage to travel to
without a destination—
A place of comings and goings from before
the sun rises
‘Til the next day when the all-knowing clock strikes
two—
A place for businessmen in long black coats with
crumpled newspapers and briefcases
Shouting into phones they make their way through
the lobby
As if they do this everyday, a home away
from home—
A place filled with mochaccinos, Magnolia cupcakes and
pricey beer and gifts,
A pit stop in that hour to kill before
the rustle of the board
Announcing the track number of the next
departure to New Haven—
A place with dizzied foreign ambassadors snapping
photos of moments in time—
A kiss on the balcony as a woman,
looking lost,
Tries to no avail, to find her friend
among the swarm of strangers
A place of chaos, delays, and
missed meetings—
Of joyful returns into
welcoming arms—
Of wonder and sheer amazement
for those who’ve never seen the stars—
It’s a place where two souls can share
a table
And not speak, only gesture to the empty,
awaiting seat—
A place where no one ever really leaves and everyone
comes home.
