Journey To New York
Standing in front
Of the place
He felt
A faint breeze
Skimming
The streets
Ankle high
Swirling dust
Reaching up
Stinging his face
Reminding him
This was not
Wind blown sand from
The ocean.
He came from a
Place like that
"...seashells by the seashore..."
Tired
He packed up
Headed out
Straight down the highway
Took the high span view
Over the George Washington Bridge
And saw the misty outline
Of Manhattan ’s
Gray turrets
Piercing the clouds
Brightly colored banners
Everywhere
And soldiers in armor
Beckoning
Him
To come with
His dreams.
Stepping back
He looked
Up and down
The streets
Nothing moving
Nothing to see
The dream
Within
Still
Burned
White
Self taught
He spent
Long nights
Searching
For the right words
And solitary days
Practicing
Until his fingers cramped
And bled.
At the clubs
He met some ladies
Had some fans
When agents stopped
Calling
He stayed
When the others
Slipped away
Leaving behind
Empty backpacks
And borrowed shoes.
The place fills up
Lights dim
A stray cough
Punctuates the silence
Alone on stage
He eases into the mike
His voice carries the song
The audience leans
To hear
Words meant only for them
He connects
With them
And they with him
The Devil is in the room
The club is transformed
After all those years
His chance is now.
Copyright © Edmund Siejka | Year Posted 2009
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