No hay ciudad sin poesía
the signs in the subway say
Another government program
in support of the arts

But I can’t read Lorca, nor Neruda
behind the wall of bodies
making their way to and fro
And, I don’t need to read it
I see it everywhere I go

I see poetry in the sidewalk blocks
cracked and broken
uneven and heaving

Hear it in narrow cobblestone streets
echoing horses’ hooves and wooden carts

Cartoneros come into the city nightly
to make a meager living
from the day’s accumulated garbage
Women breaking open bags
searching for discarded treasures
their babies playing in the midst

There is repetition in mattresses lined up side by side
under the bridge where people make their home

I hear poetry in the cacophony produced
by amateur musicians attempting to direct traffic
with an atonal instrument
trapped behind a steering wheel
weaving in and out, crossing lines and taking chances
on the widest avenue in the world

There is poetry in the marching throng
and clanging of pots
against the raising of taxes
the random unabashed raising of voices in song
in apartments, in the subway and in the streets

There is poetry in the movement of a skirt
on legs between legs
to timeless melancholic strains
of tango music in the dance halls
and the movement in and out of pedestrian traffic
to the nuevo version blaring from narrow shops.

And the sweetest love song of all
is in the way that friends
and strangers alike
greet each other with a kiss on the cheek
and squeeze themselves heart to heart
into an already overcrowded subway

There is poetry in the urgency to embrace
all the pleasures of life
and a cry of anguish
or silent acceptance
of its pain
all on display

These expressions are caught
by pen and brush
captured by lens and word
Everywhere, everyday
this poetry is seen and heard

Without this, there is no city
Without this city there is no poetry

No hay ciudad sin poesía
No hay poesía sin esta ciudad.