Outside, traffic, the occasional trill of horns,
Punctuated by construction hammers next door.
Inside, where the action is, the wayward mind yearns
To move among the noises, as the mind’s a bore.
In this city the Anglo soul has room to work, to breathe,
Isolated by language, by bias, by more time
To fill with some sort of meaning which will wreath
This tiny rented room with some perfect rhyme
That pulls the tired workers from the construction crew,
The weary drivers from their speeding, angry cars,
And solders them with burning words the way that you
Weld together the mind with lines of metered bars.
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