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Little young city
poised on the verge
of beautiful madness,
host to passionate minds,
romances, comedies and tragedies
rising like steam from the ground
stamped with the indelible ink
of spirits shaped a little like footprints

pulsing mosaic of lives
held together by the glue of living
various flavored people—
rich and famous,
starving and on the road,
or somewhere in between:
the pediatrics nurse who
paints watercolors each night,
the corporate mogul who
plays jazz on weekends…

hot traffic
half-baked, half-burnt dreams
and the restless hands of
they who nudge history inadvertently
while they follow their own paths
and reach for their own stars

they’re the best kind of people,
in my opinion

there’s a girl
dressed like sweet summer
promenade-in-the-park colors on chiffon,
braided seaside around her wrists
and her heart on her sleeve
she moves across the checkerboard
of city blocks with steps of purpose
blending in
nobody knows she is broke and
this is the nicest dress she’s ever owned

as she crosses 11th Street
she passes a delivery man
with an armful of orchids
and a senator’s mistress
effortlessly clad in Michael Kors
and she thinks to herself,
I am here,
part of the city’s rhythm
one of the city’s stories
it won’t be the same without me
and oh,
what a glorious thing
to be alive

untitled photo
from microblogging platform Tumblr


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