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.