This poem was inspired by The Escapist, the second half of the song Death and All His Friends, by Coldplay.
When I am in my Sunday chair
with a cup seated lazily
on the woven wicker coaster,
its steam rolling over the rim,
I can look out the latched windows,
through the misty streets of New York
to the dimly lit country house
hidden five miles past Bozeman.
The station becomes Fairy Lake;
the stairs a winding waterfall
for people in suits to go swim
in the waters of the subway.
I suppose that makes me the shrubbery;
a scrub far beneath the hedge funds
waiting for rain to trickle down
on the tin roof of my apartment.
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