A/N: This was written for my 9th grade English class, where we had to write poems modeled on a published poet's style (I chose Naomi Shihab Nye, an absolutely divine poet; her poems and perspectives are, quite honestly, life changing). I was walking home late one night and saw a sad looking girl nearby, and voila, inspiration. I hope you like it, cause it makes me pretty damn proud.
Amsterdam Avenue, 10:51 PM, Saturday
The air felt clean tonight.
Cleaner. The warmth was unusual
for February; the wind
felt good across her cheeks, didn't freeze
the sweet saline.
She had never truly appreciated the city
before tonight. Here,
she could walk
for miles and miles, passing
a thousand people, never seeing
a soul. Anonymity
was a way of life. No one knew or cared
what went on
behind closed doors. The bums on the street
weren't the only homeless ones.
It was nearly eleven and
she should have gone home. Those insomniatic hours
in front of CI,
SVU had taught her to fear New York at night.
But she walked:
no one spared a glance. Until
her feet hurt, the drink from the 24-hour deli
warmed, McDonalds closed its doors, her father
went to sleep, throat raw
again, the dirty
dirty air dried her mother's cheeks,
the candles on the untouched cake flickered,
and died, until
she felt a million miles away again,
in the countryside,
where the air was clear, the people
and where no one could touch her.