Writing poems in the bar in the afternoon
doesn’t make me a cliche (well, maybe it does).
But it does make me hate this city a little less,
summoning words in the quiet
before the drinkers arrive and music
from former decades distracts.
Oh yes. The door shut against
the phonewalkers and loudtalkers,
the ever-presence of people and cars
and constant droning citynoise.
Here some of those jagged edges
are rubbed smoother,
some of that god-damned citygrit
is flicked off. And fucked off.