Poetry is...

A happy day, all holidays
And March Twenty First

It is a smile of a passerby
At a crosswalk in Times Square
After 911
When everything tastes like soot

Someone sees you
In the city's ossification of the soul
With all that is unjust
And with every separation
That fear wounds us

The fickle eyes we humans
Worship by
At least someone sees you

In this amoebic herd
Risking to get across the traffic
Precariously held by red

When green is safe
Is good / is Go /
It's a day
And a healthy sign of life

Here on March Twenty First,

Poetry is
A bright sun,
A Holiday.

Poetry quenches our
Withins
The soul's
Deep thirst.