Poetry

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.

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