Here I am

A city’s height is measured by its concrete forms and curtain-walls,
        while down below they’re dressing up its garbage-bins as bathroom stalls.
Here I am, a fleeting sight for hardware under glass,
        the only ones with eyes that call, “come hither” as I pass.
                I make a stop.
                I stand mid row
                to see if there’s somewhere to go.
                        And arrows bend
                        to form a frown.
                        It asks the sky, “What slows me down?
                An iron post?
                A planted tree?
                A pillar where a plane should be?”
                        For without eyes it cannot see
                                the one who clogs its lifeblood—Here I am.

A city’s speed is measured by pop-rivets on its plastic trains,
        where hanging from the stainless-steel, a travelling circus entertains.
Here I am, the only one who’s paid to see the show,
        yet here I hang and swing and sway, performing as I go.
                I see a space.
                I lust for it.
                Can that be a place to sit?
                        But boldfaced feed
                        on empty chair;
                        Sir Evening Paper beats me there.
                So on I grip.
                Fatiguing hands
                are flexing like elastic bands.
                        Among the moving cargo stands
                                a man without an exit—Here I am.

A city’s life is measured by its violet lights and billboard signs.
        It traded in its forks and spoons for skyway-cranes with cable-lines.
Here I am, with bolted door to shield me from its hook;
        It’s join the draft of living dead or hunker in my nook.
                I light a lamp.
                I check it out;
                I look for things to care about.
                        But off they scram!
                        They burrow deep
                        in crannies where the critters creep.
                And in the dark
                there’s just my bed,
                my boxer-briefs and clean bed-spread.
                        If I could hear your voice instead
                                of lying still in silence—Here I am.

A city’s worth is measured by its pallet-trucks and packing slips
        that divvy up its daily bread to loading bays and cargo ships.
Here I am, a thing at rest without a cause will stay,
         and even with the morning dew it smells like yesterday.
                I move at last.
                I have a goal:
                to tidy up for morning roll.
                        I organize
                        and rearrange,
                        but inventory doesn’t change.
                The census says
                there’s nothing new,
                and I’ve got nothing else to do
                        but sigh, O Lord, and wait for You.
                                Lying still in silence—Here I am.