A Poem for Tuesday Morning -

Not all Tuesday Mornings are worthy of a poem,
but today I can smell metaphor along with pollen.
I can feel a certain rhythm heating the air besides
me, like a truck engine idling
flashers flashing
waiting to be unloaded.

But for this Tuesday morning, I would like
this poem to melt into the city street:
a subtle sinking, and then an enveloping
of grit and grime over words, until finally the meaning
sinks into the subway trains and into the souls
of the shoes of the people,
waiting quietly for their stop.

I want this poem to be that sole wisp of cloud floating
above the spire of the empire state building,
standing against the wind and somehow hanging on
and flaps around in the breeze, like the flag of some
small foreign country that I've never heard of.

I want this poem to be read aloud by that homeless man who calls himself
Coach, who, if we can't spare a dollar, asks us to spare a smile.

I want this poem to be printed on the Mall of Central park, where the portrait artists wait for work, and where the elm trees line the pathway like frozen soldiers.

I want this poem to be a poem but more than a poem, an idea, but more than an idea, a feeling, but more than that, a mountain, or a flower petal.

But for now,
this poem can simply be a poem,
a long list of words
about a Tuesday morning.