Searching for a poem

Riding a limb of the New Jersey Turnpike

in search of a poem, I pull onto the shoulder

and listen to the marsh, traffic and stink.

 

Each person in each car could be poetic

Duende, but they look at each other and ask

“Did you fart?” predictable, it's the muck- 

 

The tall grass does not cry, “Express me!”

Malodor of the bog is bored and miserable.

Nope, no poem here, not today-

 

Graffiti on subway trains and tunnels sneer

at me, “You should have been a painter.” Perhaps

I'll write about a fruit next to a bottle of wine

 

on a checkered tablecloth.  O' New York, give

me a poem.  Look! A Hasidic man eating

Baba Ganoush- inspiring? “What? It's good, eh?”

 

Washington Square Park, The village, ghosts of

Artisans and Beats, C'mon!  Pull a strand of greasy

hair, pluck it like a harp and play the muse.

 

Bah!

No poems here,

Not today.

 

(Sigh!) back to work, work and the rhythm of the

Galleon drum.  Boom, row!  Boom, row! for the

Man

every night and day.

 

Little poem,

you have eluded me

today.