On part 2 of my “Big City Poetry” series, I examine the intellectual heart valve that is Washington D.C. I pretentious it up with a bit of lame-ambic pentameter (see what I did there?) based on my experience visiting the Capitol city.
Big City Poetry: D.C.’s the Brain
The August recess makes this public sector hotspot feel oddly ghostlike.
This isn’t the real D.C., it’s not alive enough.
For an authentic experience you must wait until the leaves change. It’s then you’ll know…
When bureaucrats strut through awakened streets with bluetooth pieces in ear.
When you see double, triple, quadruple stitched coats produced from the nearest Capitol Hill boutique.
When you see gloves of the finest imported leather worn to combat the briskness.
When you see said gloves gripping briefcases filled with confidential information that lives depend upon.
When you see everyone sporting at least one ID to get through the front door security.
A city of secrets, it has to be.
But also a center of opportunities.
You won’t find a more intellectual domain outside of the beltway.
It’s not a high frills kind of place, but its strength lies in the ability to engage.
Meetings of the minds occur everyday.
To argue, debate, hypothesize, invigorate.
Next generation’s Milton Friedmans, Noam Chomskys, and the like, congregate in every nook and cranny of Georgetown and elsewhere to contemplate.
All the while, the leaves are falling.
And during this time, an election’s calling.