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.

Please wrap me up

in an audio cocoon;

warm my silken threads

by the morning light

as I hear 10 versions 

of “Good Morning”

jamming from my

new Skullcandy headphones,

or soothe me to sleep

at midnight;

Cover me

with a dozen curling branches

that sing 10 versions

of “I love you”

as I gently rock

in the tree.

My new wings are still wet

but you can still

hear me sing away—

my chosen lullabies

are tinged with Soul

as my voice 

grows into

a deeper chocolate 

Nimble like deer grazing,

people walk upon the snow

and the traffic shines afar

like fireflies slowly moving 

in the bluish mist of early evening;

the naked trees of the park

are black and tangled, showing

the fat flakes off. We tread

into the first snow slowly,

trying to get ahead to where

we are going in 2020.

Blessed by the lazy Saturday,

we snuggle in beds or do chores

as the snow continues on.

Thomson Ave. is silenced during the morning of Black Friday—only the constant row of cars over Queens Plaza Yards offer any escape and life.

The walking streets by the 7 train are bare; the new skyscrapers shine by the 9 o’clock sun.

I’m the only one at work on time

in Long Island City. No money makes me save like a hoarding dragon—no-go into the stores today. 

Must earn my keep after the big family meal; fighting after-effects of wine and sleepiness—must work with silence— 

but I love silence. That’s when the ideas come.