Poetry by Alexis Pearson
I drop down into the
underneath of New York
City
where stairs wear toil
like magic tricks –
where devotion is absolved
of its commitment
to disaster
to us
to everything –
the men in suits,
women in long jackets
that tempt stained concrete
with their reaching
and the homeless man
hunched over
as if he must bear the
troubles of each passenger –
what do these skyscrapers know about
clouds
and salvation,
the dirt of the ground
and dimly lit newspaper
stands, the
quiet blue of stoplight
dwellings and crosswalks
the contemplativeness
manifested on strangers’ faces
as if there is too
much going on in city
windows to ever fully
understand what unfolds
along walls and
inside doorways,
but still we try –
the subway lurches,
people move
quickly on the concrete,
I forget that my feet,
too,
can take me places,
as I wonder
where they are all
going
and why.
Alexis Pearson lives in Minnesota where it’s cold most of the year – perfect writing weather. She enjoys a good cup of coffee and will read just about anything. She has been published in Upper Mississippi Harvest and Sonder Midwest, among others.
