Maybe it's another New York City
the southerners talk about. Maybe that's where
there is money falling from the sky,
diamonds speckling
the sidewalks
Here there is only gray rock, cold
and treeless as a bad dream. Who could love
this place-where no pine trees grow,
no porch swing moves
with the weight of
your grandmother.
This place is a Greyhound bus
humming through the night then letting out
a deep breath inside a place
called Port Authority. This place is a driver yelling,
New York City, last stop.
Everybody off.
This place is loud and strange
and nowhere I'm ever going to call
home.