Against The Wall
If I could contain anxiety
in
bridge lines
move it across to Manhattan,
I would. If I could
move
over the gray ground
that blocks me in, if I could
make
it a square
of blue that I could pace and count
even
that, even that
would
be a way out.
If I could
count
the windows
in
all the skyscrapers
east
of Fifth,
If I could kick and count
I
might see a red ball
rising in the blue space,
pushing
me along
as if I am riding my ten-speed,
circling
my legs, moving
at
the speed of light
toward the yellow block of sun
where
I brace myself
against
the wall
like I did as a kid sent out
to
play in the gray cold
November
mornings,
sent out,
so
I backed myself up,
backed
up against the brick,
leaning my face into the yellow
square,
and if I could
and
I did,
I basked in the sun,
holding
it all in,
in one straight alleyway,
moving
over the gray ground.
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