Let us not act our age one night in New York City. When the smoky underground Club’s strobe light distress-signals us, let us just say yes. As, for God’s sake, it is the one place that accepts us as we are and we refuse to notice that they spell it wrong.
The rainbow-haired, don’t care dance is ours and theirs and we were born this way, to steal away -the lot of us, the we. There’s no one who’ll make us go back to the where we once called home. The white-noise sizzle of this place will see to that.
One would ask, “Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
Driving down gridded streets that sometimes wound East, then South.
Thinking of shutters painted contrasting colors, or perhaps altogether removed.
One imagines children’s summertime voices.
Carefree and popsicle glee, front sidewalks their territory.
As it should be.
One seems perfect there.
Small and yellow, with miles and miles of welcome.
Surely big enough for whatever weather.
I would give back the stars
The observer’s eyes
The galaxy’s bounty
My ev’ry step returned to me
And the Earth be flat
Than continue seeking welcome
Convinced there be an open door
Its false promise
The brazen hearth
While black wolves surround
The morning dances
The stuff of my good daydreams
The sun-filtered rooms