Lukas had a motorcade of crows
murder the street; landing
at Third and Fifty-Sixth, East.
His feet toed dignity, bowing as he’d go
from dusk deference into the light
of the sinful, sin-filled city.
“How’d you know?”
My birthday; twenty-seven, a life—
just barely—no visa, one night
left in the arms of the ambassador
of my adoptive city. “You just get
me.” Said, unknowingly, the poet
acting like truth was universal
like love, like us, or whatever
fit the description he’d give me;
wanting just to get into his heart
without an expense of pity.
Stella, in rebel yellow patent-letters,
pumped us to read reality,
“Guys, let’s get the Six at Lexington;
I know the DJ at Envy.”
After partying, waiting in the cold,
waiting for dawn’s coat, under her rose
breath we’d know we’d never go
past that line, or cross the threshold.
Bumped from Coach to Business,
I told an un-attentive flight attendant
of his caress, the subway’s pain
as it pulsed us into parting in a pant
under the asphalt veins of our home,
and that all I wanted was a little glimpse
of what everybody blanketed under
that flannel let-down word, “Security.”