If Robert Frost had lived in New York

He might have written poems like these:

On Being Asked by Our Receptionist if I Liked the Flowers

"What flowers?" I said. "These flowers," she said,
Gesturing leftward with her head,
And there it was: a vase of flowers
That hadn't graced that fort of hers
The day before. Did I say a vase?
All of an urn is what it was:
Capacious home to a bursting sun
Of thirty lilies if to one.
A splendor I'd have seen for sure--
If less employed in seeing her.

My Own Traces

Dish sinked, food stowed--
So maybe I should hit the road.
A yank at the cord of what

I'd call the kitchen light if this
Nook were more of an excuse
For calling it that.

Whereupon the making for
The freedom of the front door--
In the course of which is when

The awful certainty of my
Never sealing up the rye
Bread steals in.

Nothing but to turn around,
Back-track to where I find
Myself re-entering

The province of the kitchenette,
Only to confront the sight
Of the light-cord aswing.

Not the first case of my
Own traces taking me
Completely by surprise.

Moving me to mutter "So
I do exist"--much as though
I'd had it otherwise.

On the Avenue

From the history of 5th (a little
South of 42nd). They
Hadn't taken the grandstand
Down from some Day the day

Before. What was funny was
The extent to which the thing was still
Occupied--as though its mere
Presence made it capable

Of peopling itself. There
Were as many as fifty or so of us
At any rate, all taking
In the scene, such as

It was: not yesterday's
Respectable parade; just
The usual unruly one.
A good fifty or so, most

Of whom presumably had paused,
In the course of a busy afternoon,
To clamber up and settle down
And wave it all serenely on.

I liked that. Liked how,
Given a nice place to sit,
A body of souls was sitting there,
Whatever obligations not

Withstanding. Not that I had
A lot to do, but it looked as though
Enough of the others probably did:
Suits and white shirts and so

Forth. And yet what they
Amounted to was nothing less
Than a village of the idle in
A city of the sedulous.

Sure, it shook my view a bit
When half the villagers or more
Went storming down as one upon
The pulling up of an M-4

Bus. But there was the other half.
The half that happened to survive.
The half that lasted all the way
To the pulling up of an M-5.

from Matter, by Dan Brown