The Corner of 54th and 7th

Everywhere I go I wish to leave my mark, to keep a piece of what once was:
In the wardrobe, on the wall, I left my mark - In messy letters carved,
And when the locks on the doors changed, I kept the key.
And perhaps it resounded with me, because it sat in my handbag years later;
As I crossed the road at the corner of 54th street and 7th avenue.

In a place where you hear nothing but white noise;
And everywhere you look there are lights and signs flashing; blinding,
screaming, “look at me!”
And there's people yelling, sirens blaring, police with guns,
And a dirty, senile old man outside your hotel begging for a dollar.
When you're so far away from the quietness of home - and you're frantic –
you don't always pay attention,
and through the hole in my bag, that key fell.

I left my mark in the city that never sleeps, in a sewer on the corner of 54th and 7th.
I fell into a taxi, the airport a glaring afterthought, and sleepily squinted
against the harshness of street lamps;
A yawn escaped me, and I felt around in my bag seeking the familiar feel of metal,
But all my hands found was a hole, the size of the penny in my pocket.
It's hard to explain, but my only emotion was that of stupid, childish, regret.