The Terrible Frank Bidart

Do not think the bolts are pleasant,
they itch, they rust, they attract lightning,

Siamese twins separated at birth
by this awful neck,

lumbering here and there
I wear out my heels,

my bulging smile hates the city,
the inescapable streets.

Alienated by having this verse
thrust upon me,

my pleas for sunlight are met
with snowflakes,

my suit is all collar now
gathered against sand and dust.

Pigeons pick up the East River
with their bellies,

the metal and mortar
reflected in their eyes.