Poetry in Motion
I was on a downtown six train
headed home from the upper east
and watching a homeless man
asleep with his head against
an MTA Poetry in Motion poster.
It made reference to National
Poetry Month and had an excerpt
from Jim Moore's Love in Ruins.
My initial, "I want my picture
on fridge too mommy", envy
slowly subsided as I continued
to think about the larger scene.
The poem, about the aftermath
of love long gone, reads like a
eulogy for the illusions of youth.
I thought about things I had written
from a similar place of sorrow
and disappointment. They were ex-
tended metaphors written in ink,
tears and blood.
I started to become annoyed at
the idea of someone slicing pieces
from the heart on Jim's sleeve
and serving them in bite size
pieces to passersby. As if complete
poems were these great unfathomable
things to be treated like Tocqueville.
Only quoted by idiot pundits with
no understanding of the greater text
for they never bothered to read it.
I gave the homeless guy a dollar,
asked him to slide down a seat or two
and pulled a new black Sharpie from
my briefcase. I wrote across the poster
Poetry is art! If the MTA cut a Picaso
into pieces would it be okay with you?
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