Scribbled with a golf pencil amidst the restless, peopled din of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's main entry hall, as I sat on a time-smoothed wooden bench and pondered my churning emotions. This poem so demanded to emerge that I had to buy an appointment book at the museum shop (on clearance!) just to get the blank paper for it. (An appointment book full of NYC artwork, bien sûr.)
New York makes me stride,
pound pavement with purpose,
inhale deeply of fume and grey,
see what is not here in a startling overlay:
people who guided, places that shaped,
conversations that mattered, touches that linger.
I am at once teenager and remainder.
I have to be here. I want to be here.
I must create. I keen just to be.
Sidewalks unending...tonal layered sunset
only the beginning...
lights will not sleep. Silver transit perpetually
lurches. Emotions sharpen.
Dear God, I finally know what Mom lived.
The invigorating snap of everyday,
the intoxicating promise of better,
a now of swirling senses
limned with a bright edge.
A deeper, richer home.
An intentional life:
the sweet, brute unknown.
1/7/12: Self-portrait at the Temple of Dendur, Metropolitan Museum of Art.