The Poet Is In New York

I might get to fly out of my mortal body tonight
which is simply a size small hairy shape
in a one-bedroom apartment.
Part of a zip code in the center of the new world.
Sits on a blue velvet couch to dream of big stars and the moon
albedo for these nights of doom.
Wear a jacket to keep me warm on a cold night
and pocket poems book inside
it talks about death and love it makes me think and smile.
I read it when I commute on the train back home.
The outside is no more
I look around and hear no wind but the familiar white noise
and the concrete jail full of dusty clouds of countless woes.
Extremely hard for the poet indeed
to inspire his writing, his art not with nature's beauty
but souls mourning in blue a day.