If I write another poem for the city, this time I want
it to be an elegy. Oh New York, you wonderful piece
of shit. You carved out bone. You mystery of rats. The
subway shakes, rattles me awake, but the doubt is
Oh New York, and all your confusion. The people and
their tragedies measured against their neighbor's.
Oh, how your condos shine in the monied air. The
way I can't let go, even when I visit my parents and
ask: Wait, is there anything even open right now?
The city of immigrants, transition, bottomless
brunch. Chris moved to Vegas, and he says it just isn't
Oh this city, so ruined by itself.