how hard it is
to go from
the beauty and character
of New York City,
with its museums and bodegas,
and smells and sirens,
and strangers who feel like poems waiting to happen—
to the blandness and humidity
of South Florida,
with its shopping centers
and parking lots
and conversations about Publix subs,
where time feels slower,
and the sunsets try too hard
to make up for everything else.
I get on the train at Bowling Green,
change cars at Fulton Street,
change playlists at Brooklyn Bridge,
get off and run errands in Union Square;
it's always Union Square!
Fridays are forgotten, for good or ill,
Saturday afternoons are the stuff of legend,
and Sundays are weather, welcomed.
I have never belonged
anywhere
more
than New York City.
There is possibility around every corner;
in Florida, there is only predictability
around every aggressive asshole
on the turnpike.