I blathered for years about NYC --
smoldering fog and cold cod shells
of people, just people,
peddling gray dollar signs,
watching black limos flog the poor.
Their chatter over
red ravioli sauce
sticking to bruised lips.
Lapping their easy Perrier.
Their symbol, the steel penis
of scraped skies,
cathedrals shaved to fit
in the greed palm,
just whisper now,
a fading wail.
I am wondering
at my faux green brain,
willing this city gone
for prairies its stole.
Ash of my wish, brambles
of word, now haunt me.
The half-egg of
a fireman's hat
cracks my sleep.
It's quiet now, like a
throw-away shirt without arms.
Just holes and pork chop ground
pummeled by rain.
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