in New York,
it's about walking
with purpose.
Past the Sunday softballers,
the first wave brunchers,
the ones without hangovers,
past pretty, wet flowers.
Past the hawk of McCarren Park,
panhandlers with pitbulls,
and other autumn animals
hiding in the red concrete forest.
It's hot under this heart,
I have to earn my NYC back,
or it has to accept me,
and I start anew with her.
The stench of Los Angeles
lingers on me like a dog;
even the chick singing Mazzy Star
in the subway station smells it.
She makes $200 a day,
moonlights at the cafe,
and slicing up Brooklyn like pizza
makes me happy.