Walking home on 14th street I wonder
If every poet
Loves Duane Reade the way that I do.
When I head south on 4th Avenue, against my better judgement, I check my phone to see who hasn’t called.
The light changes, a silver car crushes a black motorcycle, and the girl on the back of the bike is now on her back near the bike.
Calling 911 is a favorite pastime of mine, and making sure everyone is okay, even if they are not, is sort of like serving a dinner someone else made.
I am used to lifting heavy things, and making the calls, so I feel the air less static as I move away from the hive of sirens.
It is another thing we can talk about. How car accidents remind me of my own mortality. I am so young. I wonder if every poet has a knack for finding the wounded.
By Alphabet City, I have forgotten how close to death we all are. Tompkins is lamp lit, overrun with rats, and lovely as a dream. It’s hard to think about death
When all I do is live here. My eyes ache. My feet are sore from the walking. I want to buy shampoo and gum and yes, flavored water.