Or A Weird Poem

It's weird, 
sleeping downtown,
waking up downtown.

I walk six blocks 
to the Fulton 4-5 stop,
just to go up
to get food
at places I know
and see familiar faces.

Eric is out of town for Shy Shy's wedding,
I wasn't invited for some reason,
Raquel is dancing in Atlantic City,
Franco is sleeping or stoned or both.

It's weird, 
coming back
to a place you call home
with very few people you know left. 

I will probably get lonesome
and head upstate
just to be with Daniel
and feel wanted and involved.

Or maybe,
I will try to build something
or rebuild something here,
from the ground up,
just like I did before. 

I have money and time,
so maybe I will just ride the bus
back and forth and write,
or sit on a bench in Union Square
and catch up on my reading. 

I'll disappear in basement
poetry nights, get lost,
like I did before,
a long time ago,
listening to Bob Dylan
and finish things I started. 

It's weird,
but I want to belong here again;
I want New York to want me,
for good or ill,