Three Minutes and Sixty Years
       

A mere
shrug of atmosphere—
and then the fog
coughing up some buildings, and then
the smell of rain just inside
the door—
puts a naked eye
to things, and makes them
beautiful.

Losing
your phone is like
losing your mind. It's like
a fountain—
the door's wide open—
the words
tall buildings make
speak mostly to pigeons
and styrofoam
cups.

Get out.
Get out of my cab
he said. Wake up.
It's different.

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Copyright © 2014 Ralph Angel All rights reserved
from Ralph Angel
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission