From the archives — Philadelphia — David W. Landrum

Philadelphia

Cold turned to heat those nights when neon tones
filtered through our window, softened
your beauty to the tone of wine. Your love
tasted like fire far into the night. Each day
we walked up to the courthouse, under
William Penn, his statue set aloft, judiciously.
John Wanamaker, not yet gone to green, still copper-cast;
gargoyles of Socrates; The Thinker contemplating us;
sun white as the smock Camille Claudel wore at the asylum.
Hold me like the black statue of Shakespeare holding the dying fool.

by David W. Landrum

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 5, March 2007