The growl of metal against brick
Drills the city into my consciousness,
Sews light into my hair,
Decorates my wrist with sawdust,
Awakened and alive by the backdrop of voices
Melting through the construction
And into my skin,
Where dust particles
And traffic
Realign with the music in my blood,
Atoms of a soundtrack so phenomenally composed,
It brings Manhattan to tears.

Painted women pose between my eyelashes,
Catcalls of truck drivers
Gather at the nape of my neck,
Adding volume to my hair.

The carpet of sweat
And cigarette butts
Remark I am a poet
Among a city of poets,
Where my words mix with the words around me,
My emotions blend with those already regurgitated through prose,
¾’s of an inch below the cutoff,
In a city where “second chance”
Is a fantasy novel.
Individuality is established
Among a city of individuals.