As I sit at my desk wishing <br />I did not have to edit a book <br />on poetry and painting a <br />subject that fascinates me <br />usually, but today is not as <br />usual, being today, white sky, <br />decent amount of sunlight, <br />forty one degrees in Central Park, <br />and it makes sense to dream of <br />Chicago, another big city <br />with two major league ballclubs, <br />and the pleasure of seeing Paul <br />and you, too, Elaine, whom <br />I never get to see often enough <br />in our own city of the subway series <br />the champagne gallery and <br />the tech wreck on wall street, <br />and as I look out the window <br />almost any minute I expect <br />the brokers to fall from the sky <br />like Icarus in Brughel's painting in <br />Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts" <br />(and so back to work)<br /><br />David Lehman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/december-7/
