You are Aunt Josephine’s bad egg salad
at family reunions I still eat,
because I am hungry.
I will devour you until onions go bad,
until my stomach feels selfish.
You are blasting booze
charging my alcohol toleration $2.25 –
The New York catch phrase is “I think I can”
and the railroads on the west,
don’t like your imitation basement tracks.
You are a permanent state of limbo-
and I fear I will love you
until there is no “til”
until space whispers “whooaahh”
until Jesus feels old.
I feel holy on your sidewalks
and meek on the 26th floor boards.
You are chasing my sound waves,
but I’m not making any noise.
You smother me, like backs smooshing grass-
like the night in the park on 5th,
when romance was necessary,
but dripping intravenous therapy style
directly into my body.
My porch is the Lord’s backyard,
the lantern a flirtatious compromise
between starvation,
or posioned nutrients-
you kerosene, sapphire, ghostly,
comet of a city, who flew by centuries ago.
I, we, us –
living off your stardust trail.
