some cities make
an olympic sport,
and others let you trip over it
on the sidewalk,
beside the overflowing trashcan,
behind the building
with the fire escape.
you’re easy –
but trust me,
that’s a compliment coming
from a magician.
you have a million tricks,
there’s nothing but more corners
to hide your doves and
you are a giver,
baby. a giver
of windows thrown open,
heads peeking out,
ears trained on the bouncing screeches of
emergency sirens, concrete drills,
and high-pitched laughs. yes, people
are crazy, and yes, I love them all,
and yes, there was that one man that shat
right on the side of the sidewalk,
but baby, being a giver
isn’t a bad thing. it is a conversation,
a comment, it is openness and lateness and
stereotypes breaking open
like an egg
to reveal breakfast.
new york, you are full of it.
you suck the marrow from my bones
like I never needed it,
but I am a giver too, so take it from me
take it all,
I know you need lifeblood,
and I know that I need you
running through my veins like 6-trains,
so I will donate myself to you.
be a charity.
be a poet.
be a drug addict.
be a yankees fan.
be all those things in east harlem,
at an ihop,
with bad teeth and a heart with golden
be here and open
to waking up on a tuesday
for your life to change
for it to stay the same.
Photo credit: Jannes Glas on Flickr