Already flashed my ass on Houston Street today.
(a sweet, elderly, black woman with a walker
mercilessly tugged my skirt down; thank you Ma’am)
before Phil drank his Breakfast of Champions drink
(pineapple juice & vodka)
and signed his new lovin’ coyote book: Hooray the hero!
I already traced my steps before,
to the Library Bar on Ave. A,
trying to remember that magic night years ago
before Sister had a kid,
but the bar looked different in the mid-afternoon light—
It was so empty with dumb-looking hipsters—
and the grocery store across the street
reminded me of the UWS
with its various goat cheeses and specialized sushi—
this is not the LES, man!
Let’s sing of gut sandwiches here and drink Stella in the dark
among dozens of stone-cold groovin’ friends
as New York continues to get real,
dancing between old and the new realities
as our long, black skirts stay up
on a sunny winter’s day
without you noticing (at first).
When evening comes in like a casual bandit,
when the kids fill up on 2nd Ave.,
the new bars here now
are a grey, pale shadow
of the dive bars of the ‘80s,
and more new, soulless glass boxes
are built here, with crippling
rent hikes & mortgages,
shutting down the heart
of the neighborhood,
as Phil’s stories of Blondie & Boho illustrate,
these wild coyotes
still try to survive here,
even in these dark times.