The Poet & the City

Steven Cordova

Much distress today. 

Socks didn’t match 

my underwear, didn’t match 

my sweater. I worry: 

what if something were to happen, 

& that something made it a life- 

&-death imperative 

that I remove my pants? 

Would my fellow citizens point? 

Would my fellow citizens laugh? 

I have similar worries 

about a blackout: 

what if you were at the barber’s, 

& he’d only trimmed half your beard  

when the power blew?  

You’d have to walk around, 

face half full, half trimmed. 

Meanwhile, every runner 

mid-stride on a treadmill 

would hit the running belt 

that fateful moment the lights go, 

falling chin first, shattering 

bone, rattling teeth. 

So you see my worry  

is not just for myself. 

It’s cold out 

& I worry for the city, too.