NYC

He wakes each morning with splendid violence, looks out the window and his eyes drop down 36 floors, gazing at smoking candlestick skyscrapers

you chase your breath down the sidewalk and forgot a glove but drink your latte anyway ——

weave through the crush of cars, scarves and eyes while a capsule unribbons itself in your gut spreading endothelial purpose to gaping cells.

Wake a neat blue sleeping screen and point your cursor through digital blinds of numbers

pay the bill at lunch because it makes you feel like a man or wear a Weitzmann boot because if makes your legs long like the pretty girl plastered upside down on a Fifth Ave billboard

In the subway home, that metal portal, your peers peer through fiberglass windows as the ancient tunnels of New York roll by like film, tuned to the screeching steel

Dreams stick to the town like flypaper and you wriggle yourself to bed

(In the garden of your mind you forget the city and its specter of success)