Or poems about wanting to travel. Way back in 2004 (doesn't that seem so long ago?) I had just started seriously writing and submitted a few poems to InkPot, a now-defunct literary magazine. To my surprise, one of them actually got published and became my first piece of published writing outside of zines and the college paper. It was a very small lit journal, and I got paid in copies. But the thrill of seeing my name in print that fall was enough to keep me writing, even through the many hair-pulling nights of writer's block that came after.
Between my day job and freelance writing nowadays I don't have much time or mental energy for poetry anymore, sadly. (Maybe someday.) In any case, since InkPot doesn't have my poem in its archives, I'm including it here as a tribute to all first publishings. However small the step, it's always a step forward.
Storyboard for the First Scene
Somewhere in the opening montage
daybreak's broom begins to sweep away
the night's dawdling ashes from the composition
of yellows and oranges in C major, whose notes
illuminate the sidewalk oaks that house
the blue jays and sparrows, who begin foraging for
breakfast crumbs from the early risers, among them,
the vagabond musician and his guitar companion,
settling in their temporary home and doffing
a woolen hat that becomes a welcome mat for
coins and dollar bills that journey from the pockets
of businessmen, who will go to their desks on the 27th floor
and look out at the skyline, perhaps into my window
down the street, opened to allow light to visit
the coffee mugs hibernating in open cupboards,
anticipating the first caffeinated dewdrops, imported from
the Andes, a place I have never visited
like so many others, but remain on my list
of cinematic backdrops for dreams that transport me
through the night and into the morning.
