No doubt there have been millions.
Every schoolchild writes a poem or two for class,
So that would be millions right there.
Not that those would really interest me much.
And then there are the hundreds of thousands of collegiate poems—
Either dramatically scrawled by hands clenched in angst
Or Procrustean pedagogic affairs that
Butcher and stretch words to make them fit conventional forms.
And we know the poems of Dylan Thomas and Whitman.
The poems have come from every corner of this island.
There are the ones written in Harlem and
Those coming from the Upper East Side.
Thousands were written after the towers fell.
There are the love poems;
There are the memorials;
There are the vicious screaming poems
Complaining about the terms of man’s life.
What if there were a marker wherever a poem was written?
Would there be anywhere in the city you could turn
Without seeing a reminder that a poem was written nearby?
If I were able to read the entire catalog,
What would I find?
How many sonnets in praise of a lover?
How many poems comparing women to flowers?
Perhaps there would be a thousand referencing acorns and oaks.
Ten thousand each on Times Square and Herald Square?
A hundred written in the presence of Balto’s statue,
A thousand amongst the statues of Shakespeare, Scott, Burns, and Halleck?
But most of them have left us
And are gone forever.
Except for the lucky few thousands,
They have found oblivion
And vanished without a trace.
Good thing poems don’t have ghosts.