where the copper cows come
to be grass fed, free range
in McCarren Park.
A hundred birds
endure the sky,
over Harlem
every night.
I sit in a tunnel
better than New Jersey
just to get to Chelsea
so I can sleep in a storage unit.
She dances
with broken hoof
near the middle bay,
worrying away.
Franco fights
his make believe
far away,
bothering Eric always.
Raccoons and coyotes
take Central Park,
commuting on the Rumbler
from Yankees Stadium.
Shaolin sees
across the Verrazano,
narrow as a sword,
giving words from Deck, Mel and Tom.
And rats
in Times Square
eat the pizza
I got fired for.
Egyptians with blackheads
stay quiet
in their length,
angry at us for sharing shirts.
No more mammoths,
or leopards,
just lizards
that are lost north.