Shadow mirror talks back
through Chrysler building spire.
Short hair sticks up in places.
The sun on my face makes a cat of me.
Wake slow as vine on stacked brick.
Mother loves her own.
Preacher man daddy gave me
his easy smile, gave me
his jokes, his morning commute
from Ferry to 4 train.
The phone rings.
Midtown home is dream sleep.
I remember the bar on 25th and 3rd,
I remember outside of Grand Central
at 4 am. Not much has changed but
circumstance. I ride a bike to everywhere.
Everything is mine if I will ask for it,
everything comes and it goes.
Fog has already lifted from the Hudson.
It’s colder than it looks outside.
Shadow mirror breaks the scales,
will not weigh justice or girl
Marble fire stays cold in
This is just another machine gun
riot. No one is leaving for the
Skyline stacks itself against
tentative. High rise is a dare
to the bold.
See if Met Life will give any answers.
See where the sun shines in Midtown.
The city is no context
The city is hells angels
and homeless saints.
I uncurl myself from dream
and put one foot on the floor
at a time.
The restaurants are full of ghosts
and linen napkins. My phone rings
on the nightstand for answers.