Palmer Smith
My Willowed City.
My Willowed City.
On West 114th Street, ankles entangle themselves
Becoming roots. Roots rot & ravage the concrete
Her fingers pinch sparkling curls
The campus grass is her dress
Erato’s statue morphs in vitam.
In vitam, she must dance.
On East 72nd Street, Erato’s back
Brushes against a velvet purple sofa
Bosoms embraced by opals and rubies
Lips quiver swallowing ash of a cigarette
Her mustached man imbibes a gin and tonic.
Erato’s thinking. Erato’s been wanting
to speak, but this man’s making her weak.
Honey, you’re too big boned, he yells
To her cheek.
Seek and ye shall find
Her alligator briefcase.
It’s her turn now. She tells
Us girls as we glide into the silver doors
Of the Lexington Avenue subway.
On West 11th Street, fondue & rose
Splash our lips as we say, I wonder
If we kept writing. Kept writing?
Kept writing instead
Kept writing to tread
Draw the Ink & be fed
We’d drink it like water
Then our heels would dig into
the feet of the men who said
We weren’t good enough
To be loved when really
It was quite the opposite.
