it lives there...
my veins are the rumbling subway lines,
my limbs the boroughs,
and this weekend,
the 20th anniversary
of you-know-what
is tough, because I am not there.
I am not home.
Lucky to be distracted
by music and friends,
new muses,
a different metropolis,
but I am reticent to accept
my ignorance, because
it would be simply nice
to be home.
I may have been born
in Orlando, Florida,
but I was created in NYC;
it gave me a voice,
a vision, a career;
it gave me love and heartbreak,
so many memories.
I remember sitting in freshman college english,
and an older woman, who was always late,
running in and telling everyone
that a plane had just flown into the World Trade Center.
We turned on the TV just in time
to watch the second plane collide.
My first real job in Manhattan
was located in Battery Park,
a short walk from Ground Zero,
and I remember thinking to myself,
as I wrote drivel copy,
what I would do if I had worked there that day.
While I won't physically be there
this weekend,
the 20th anniversary
of you-know-what,
I will always be a New Yorker.
It is tattooed on my skin,
and on my soul:
New York City is home,
and I will see her,
live in her again,
real soon.