POETRY

nEW yORK

I.

A puddle reflects a glimpse

of perfection and me, a bit of imperfection,

sometimes I’m Johnny Coltrane’s saxophone

hitting high G above the belligerent clattering of

honks,

alarms,

sirens,

Fuck you!

Mostly, you’re buildings look down—

tisk tisk,

and the crumbled-paper lawyer walks his dog alone

on Christmas eve.

II.

Your streets gossip—

that bitch with the heels again,

she comes home with a new pair of shoes

every weeknight.

III.

We smoke blunts in staircases,

on rooftops, in your mother’s boudoir,

40oz become ash trays

containing our dolorous existence,

we exhibit strokeslapslipped fine art—

must’ve been some dank weed,

concur that we’ll never be as good,

we are footprints in wet pavement

and broken skateboard windows,

wherever we go, we smell

like fuming potholes

and although we’re the garnish

on your foie gras,

we’re also a thistle

in your garden.