Blake Lapin ’19

Silent Observer

I stretch


Feeling with my leaves

When my body can reach

No further.

And I see

In my elastic glory:


Who shove

Accelerate and smoke


Who menace

Swagger and bully


Who carry on proud

When they should be


Changing Tune

There is a serenity to the

Grid locked streets

Curving tracks beneath

Daunting walkways above.

We who long for arrival

Get lost in New York,

Where stories aren’t created

They’re found:

Within passing by clowns


Painted skepticism

Lost monks


In the crowded streets

Exasperated children,


By their grandma wearing “hip” clothes

Three decades old.

Strolling a city block

Is studying for a history final

In a class that covers

All 196 countries

And spans 400 years

Except you lost the syllabus

And don’t remember which 400 years.

In an attempt to fit in, we dress distinctly

Like no one else

And roam the streets,

Hoping to be found by

Another, hoping to be found.