Weary of the
coal-fired gridlock of cityscape,
my mind balks at subway token hustle and
jive,
wheels on steel below obsidian ground
and the hard-shoe pavement slap of
nine-to-five.
Hours of jet lag burn the brain,
and the blare of taxi horns, like a pinball,
bounces from bone to bone, pain to pain.
The surgical steal of a skyscraper pierces
the sky
and bleeds the unsullied thought trying to
rise.
Lumbering buses and commuter trains
rock hope and desire to an early grave
while impaling musical notes, once so
pure,
hanging on the troubadour’s clef and stave.
The button-down guru chants his
spreadsheet mantras,
a gong opening and closing the wailing of
Wall Street,
the moneychanger’s table still not
overturned.
But I too will arise and go now,
forsaking the usual metropolitan beat,
and find the wood-pure cabin in the trees,
the peace that comes dropping slow.
I shall sift the softened boughs of pine
before striking creative flint and stone,
before drinking the hamadryad’s sacred
wine.
Then will I write and paint the natural
colors of thought
and sing a song to the silvered lawn, the
ring-neck loon,
courtesy of crickets and the mystical
midnight moon.
~William Hammett
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