He said it aloud,

Matter of fact;

“I’m just a schmo”.

And with that,

The axis of the city turned

Away from his creative self, 

Away from his power,

Away from his youthful visions

Like the winter axis turning away from the sun,

Like a beggar knocking on a church door that never opens,

Like a wife who has fallen out of love with her husband.

He’s just a schmo,

Biting into a half-wet pastrami on rye.

He’s just a schmo,

Being pushed out of the subway

By the rush of commuters.

He’s just a schmo,

Looking up at his office building.

He’s just a schmo,

Breathing, waiting in line.

He’s just a schmo,

Arguing with the retail saleswoman

About returning a work shirt he bought six months ago.

He’s just a schmo,

Overwhelmed by the enormity 

Of the city.