Not in New York
When I’m not in New York,
I’m thinking about New York,
the Bohemian remnants
of Soho and the Village,
the mad dog run
in Union Square,
the walls of books at the Strand,
the theaters, the restaurants,
the hawks that dip down
from the high flying apartments
that border Central Park.
And, even back further
into my memory, escapades
at the Chelsea Hotel,
with an assortment of
rock star hangers-on,
out of then: minds
on the latest drugs,
while my pen
kept them high and happy
long after they got
clean or dead.
And taxi rides,
from the hair-raising
to the back seat relaxed
with a one night lover,
the sex later so fantastic,
it was like the capital city
of all previous and subsequent
love-making.
And there’s the museums.
The galleries. The clubs.
The night lights.
Fact is, when I’m not in New York,
that’s where you’ll find me.
