Walking Poem

Too strong to be bound
to the pulpy chains of my notebook,

a poem climbed out of the pages
and sauntered away into the streets
of new york city.

And you couldn't miss her even if you tried.

the rhythm of her gait is perfect meter,
altering the tempo of songs tumbling out of
car stereos when she walks by.

her imagery could put your eyes out,
and her rhymes never fully unfurl, instead curl
around burly figures and envelop them
in whirling dervish embraces.

her metaphors are green brown eyes
that pierce the hearts of composition books,
and stop newspapers, research papers, flypaper,
music paper, passport papers and money papers
cold, clutching their lungs and gasping for air.

who knew such a poem could walk around new york
and get a way with it!

and I miss her. I miss the way she danced across my page,
she now replaces lineless paper with crosswalks
and sidewalk cracks. I miss her musky inkpaper smell.
I miss the way her voice would kiss its way into and out of my mouth.

This poet just ain't the same without her.

So if you see my walking poem, send her home to me.