Cleopatra’s Needle comes to New York, 1881; artist unknown


by Patrick Bower


When I feel like the earth’s core is molten inside me

or that the heavens swell and sing in tribute to my pain,

when I imagine I’m the conductor, not the usher

that, let’s face it, I am,

I stand on the stylobate of some grand structure

like a Rockefeller library, kneel,

press my head against the stone.

I count on these things falling

long after I’m



Patrick Bower is a writer and songwriter living in Brooklyn, New York. A graduate of Indiana University, he supports his poetry habit with freelance copywriting. His work has appeared in Lit.cat, Sheila-Na-Gig Online, and 805 Lit and is forthcoming in The Corner Club Press.