Ode to New York

Old lady
with a flip-phone
screaming “Hello!”
at the top of your lungs
on Lexington Ave,
you are the Queen Skyscraper
among mere subjects -
so many 
puny, flaccid obelisks
in comparison 
to the BOOM of your harangue,
that would stop traffic
if it weren’t already stopped.
You push 1990s techne
to its utter limits, bearing
no delay in response
from what I imagine
is your daughter
who is preparing to marry
that asshole Ben
with the flat in Clinton Hill
and the misshapen nose,
like God’s clay was too lumpy
that morning
and he had missed his 
usual train at Christopher
and got to heaven late
and couldn’t have his five-dollar
Timorese pour-over
until 10:45am.
Maybe, you are trying to tell 
me something by standing right
in the foot traffic, oblique
with the lanes we’ve spent
so much habitual trudging
regimenting into sacrament,
like that
when you have an opening
you’ve got to wrest
that shit from the aether,
the masked politeness
that bleeds
resolutely out
of this place
when you carve at it
just a little,
that has no pull on you,
and shoot fiery, bleating
into some foreign ear.

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