The sky was paler
than the cheek of a melancholy romantic.
The streaks of the melting snow
bulged like veins on the lonely rooftops.
There was something about the view that was quite enchanting.
reciting “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,”
smoking Marlboro Lights
and admiring the spiraling smoke.
The morning was wonderful and I couldn’t put my finger on it,
but it seemed out of the ordinary,
as if I awoke
to find out existence had meaning,
and I stumbled upon it.
No, it had nothing to do with either of us.
This wasn’t the point.
It was more about scattered rhymes and iambic pentameter.
As a whole,
this city resembled a well-written poem
and I picked up its rhythm on the cobble-stone avenue.
The whole street seemed to rock
like a ship in a stormy bay.
North End reached out for me with its stretching tentacles,
and strangers smiled at me
from the windows of every café,
as if looking at some strange and remarkable spectacle,
they couldn’t decide if I
was a poet, a lover or simply mad,
My eyes glistened with tears,
illumined by the sunrise fire.
I was screaming poetry at the top of my lungs,
with all I had,
as if no one was listening
so my voice went an octave higher.