Literaryspill, Of Good Days On a good day- you can...

On a good day- you can barely

hear the echoes of a million feet

marching solemnly into their cages

pacing past slabs of grey concrete

darting in between yellow blurs

and fragile skyscrapping glass

barely scratching the surface of the sky

You can walk on worn out asphalt

and miss the cracks on paper thin walls

listen- to hard jazz emanating from Battery Park

and not be disturbed by the whispers

of the homeless man

around the corner

with a sign that reads- today is a beautiful day-

Down by the MET, you can sketch a portrait

of a man and a woman-

cradling one another in each others arms

and leave out the hungry desperation in their eyes

outline the skeleton of hard hands and soft fingers

almost grazing each other-but not quite

and miss the stifling air that resides

between two inches of space

you can trace the curvature of their lips

heavy with truth that they wont speak

-we were also having a good day-

a good day today- the homeless man is gone

lost among the trails of the forgotten and

the silent pleas of humanity

and you are not thinking of me

but you are content

and- I am writing you

keeping track of History

reliving the last good day we had

on a good day, it’s a tragedy