is that your silhouette against a defective skyline?
were those fireworks against the window
of that blight they call a hotel?
is that the moon showing up finally,
shining light down onto rivington,
the night the lights really went down on broadway?

there he sat in our common pitch black
next to a white girl with dirty blonde dreads
that almost made her pretty
and certainly made her not me

my red curly curls weren’t enough
to afford me the graciousness
i once so easily commanded around here

everyone’s got their theory
and as antsy as i am i would be moreso
if i were anywhere else but here on this roof
surrounded by flashlights
flashing cops lights
and the cherries of cigarettes across the way

will i ever be able to get away with this again?


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