Your selected poem and recommended poem

The Key to the City

Anne Winters

All middle age invisible to us, all age
passed close enough behind to seize our napehairs
and whisper in a voice all thatch and smoke
some village-elder warning, some rasped-out
Remember me . . . Mute and grey in her city
uniform (stitch-lettered JUVENILE), the matron
just pointed us to our lockers, and went out.
‘What an old bag!’ ‘Got a butt on you, honey?’ ‘Listen,

did I get lost with these streetnames! Spruce
Street, Water, or get this, VANderwater—’ Cautiously, coolly,
we lit up, crooking palms for the ashes. All fifteen
or under, all from Manhattan, we loitered bare
to the waist for the X-rays. In the whorling light
from one rainy window, our shapes were mere
outlines from floor to wall, opaque
as plater, white, or terra-cotta, black . . .

‘Names or numbers,’ a skinny white girl with pale blue eyes
shrugged her shoulders. ‘Why come here at all? You think little Susan
(thumb mockingly hooked at herself) needs working papers
to work in my uncle’s diner? If they’d let me off school
at noon now—that’s where the real tips are!’
And she smiled at our objections around her smoking
cigarette (I thought) like some museum mummy,
amber-fingered, fishhook collar bones—

‘What are you talking? Don’t you know the city
keeps like an eye we don’t get overworked?’
‘Yeah, and your Social Security number, that’s
for life, girl, that ain’t worth something to you?’
The skinny girl just cackled, goospimpled arms
huddled against her ribs. ‘Whadda you two, work
for the mayor? What’s this (swinging her locker key
with its scarred wooden number)—the key to the city?’

She meant last week, when they’d offered it
to some visiting queen. Even I snickered. I
was younger than most of them, homesick among the near-
women’s breasts and hair, even the familiar
girls’ cloakroom odors: perspiration, powder, decades
of menstrual fust—‘Well, I’m coming back in six months.’
This was one of the black girls, elbow swivelled
on pelvic sidethrust, finest hair—

filaments, finerimmed, sulky mouth. ‘She’ll be
sixteen, getting married,’ the girl next over
burst in eagerly, ‘He got a store job, still her folks
against it, they say stay in school. But every
afternoon—’ Distantly, the first girl listened to
her own story, only breaking in at the end: ‘I want a real
church wedding. Down here is just for the license, see?’
‘A license,’ said “little Susan,” sourly, ‘like for a job?’

‘His name is Harold Curtis,’ was all she answered, then ‘It too strong
for my parents. They see it too strong for them in the end.’
In our silence, the gutter slurred strangely. And for just one
moment, everyone breathless, the atmosphere grew
almost tender. But nobody knew what to say
except good luck, so we all went on smoking like chimneys
except the one murmur, of old and incurable
anger, ‘Listen. Listen. They get you coming and going.’

Now each girl tilts her face down, contemplating
her own unseen choices, real
tips, the solitary and common
square foot of imaginary chance . . . Outside, the rain
was letting up. The city, like a graph
of its own mountainous causes, climbed in a mist
across our window. And then the matron came, calling
our locker numbers, one by one, for the X-rays.

‘Jesus, it’s late.’ ‘Hey honey, I’m ready!’ ‘Where’d we change
at from the D Train?’ Through the clearing air on the far
side of City Hall Park, I could see a narrow street
and a streetsign: Broadway. Miles to the north
my street had a number, and Broadway was really broad.
In the concrete prows of islands, the innumerable old women
were sitting, lonely as soldiers, silent as . . .
‘What’s up, girl? Goose step on your grave?’

Another number. And now, the room darker, each girl
cast about for the cheering word, when ‘Listen,’ I suddenly
heard my own voice saying, ‘Guess what I saw coming down? A street
called Anne Street.’—‘So what?’—‘So my name is Anne.’
A pause, then ‘Hey kid, that’s really funny!’ They all
grinned, and one of the older girls gave my shoulder
a tolerant punch. I was one of the youngest, and as far
as I can remember, that was all that I said.

Recycling Center

Brenda Hillman

The labeled bins on the California hillside
catch the glint and quarter-glint of passing cars.
Families pull up with their interesting trash
and start unloading: Here, sweetheart,
this goes over in Newspaper. The bundle
hits with a thud. Diet soda cans
spin almost noiselessly down, and the sun-
permitting bottles from a day’s pleasure
are tossed into Mixed Glass by the children
who like to hear the smash, unknowable, chaotic,
as matter greets itself and starts to change.

What mystery is inside a thing! If we peered
into the bin, we could see it waiting there,
could believe everything is alive and specific
and personal, could tell by the tilt of one
bottle against the next that it’s difficult
to be singular, to have identity, to keep
an outline safe in the terrors of space.
Even the child knows this. Bye, bottle! she shouts,
tossing it in; and the bottle lies there
in the two o’clock position, temporarily itself,
before being swept into the destiny of mixture. . .

And what if some don’t want to. What if some items
in the piles of paper, the orange and blue
envelopes from a magazine sweepstakes, numbers
pressing through the cloudy windows
with our names, some among those pale sheets curled
with moisture, would rather stay as they are.
It’s spring; we’ve thrown away mistakes—
tax forms, recipes, tennis-ball-sized
drafts of poems—that which was blank
shall be made blank again—but what if
that failed letter wants to be a failure,
not go back to pulp, and thought .. .
Or across the parking lot, where light insists
on changing the dull cans, a few cans don’t want
to be changed, though they should want to,
shouldn’t they, should want to be changed
by light, light which is called sweet reason,
honeyed, spectra, magnitude, light that goes
from the parking lot looking helpless
though it is matter that has been betrayed. . .

All afternoon the bins are carried off
by those who know about where things should go,
who are used to the clatter the cans make,
pouring out; and the families, who believed change
would heal them are pulling away in their vans,
slightly embarrassed by that which refused . . .
The bins fill again with hard substances,
the hills bear down with their fugitive gold,
the pampas grass bending low to protect
what was briefly certain and alive with hope.

Why was this poem recommended?

Currently this poetry engine looks a set of features about the poems and chooses a poem with the most similar set of features. Below you can see the features of each poem. Right now "most similar" is a simple Euclidean distance. Further work includes adding more sophisticated features and determining similarity differently. I talk about the features and similarity metric more on the about page.

Feature The Key to the City Recycling Center
NumLines 89 55
NumWords 709 401
WidthInChar 49.59 43.17
AvgWordSize 4.71 4.73
RepetitionScore 0.49 0.47
ObscurityScore 0.48 0.48
SentenceScore 0.14 0.15