They say in New York you should get used
to the rats
and the roaches
and the stenches
and the garbage
and the glitter and gold
but they don’t warn you that
there might be a mouse
in the house
Late at night when I
write my
post of the day
I recline deep in my couch with my
feet up
spirits down
drunk off lack of sleep
and a glass filled to the brim
of silent patience and a lifetime
full
of daydreams
The paranoia of a vacant mind
is all that I have
at
this
hour
with only the
tick-tock
of my internal clock
and
The deafeningly precise
ruffle ruffle
in the corner
of a New York hustler
standing in
(almost)
at two vertical inches
with a fast-twitch tail
that Usain Bolt
couldn’t hang with
Stay still in the evening
to see the hustler
jolt by
in carefully measured
hummingbird bursts
that slide him
craftfully
hungrily
playfully
(to him)
right by my feet
The hustler
never sleeps
in the city