being alone--not loneliness, that creature of the quiet house,
with its dripping tap, mouse droppings, cool linoleum floor,
and echo of street cars, long and tunnel-like and lined
with doors. that will always seem lonely.
But satisfaction in being on the busy street--the coffee
house, beside a crowded couch without a familiar soul
outside your cup. Famous strangers, unfamiliar neighbors,
a mess of stranger faces outside front doors.
It is this to love in the city--mother metropolis, with her
trash blizzards, fast-forward, where-am-I, grab-the-map
delirium, where we all mess together. Our cyclone home,
in which we are often lost in the crowd,
that loves us little back.
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