Statues
By
Courtney Staib
Planted upon the icy concrete,
my racing mind dwindles and my thoughts
end their pulsating flight.
Remaining observant,
I go unnoticed as if my body has
morphed into a dismal flower, just peaking
through the cracks in the wall. Grey skies
remain static under the hovering imperial blue.
Statues of unique sameness
stomp swiftly on their towering plinths
throughout the block. Their eyes glossed over
with vacancy and vainglory; their chins raised
with pride and prestige. My dismay
has soaked through the sidewalk cracks and now
melds with pools of popularity and puddles of performance;
an unwilling understudy.
Canadian Geese pervade the frigid air,
braiding patterns through the aroma of
fresh coffee and Chanel N°5. Music weighs
heavily in each and every ear; deaf to the sounds
of taxi horns, fire sirens and demeaning catcalls.
In a system of statues, I am a stick figure.
Journeying through their flip book, in my limbo.
Awaiting—Awaiting —Change.
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