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I want to live in the neighborhood of you.
I want to find the bodega around the corner
that knows my name.
I want to know what it used to be like here,
twenty years ago, before I moved in.
I want to pick up my clean clothes
and give you my dirty things.
I want to pick up your litter
and throw mine away.
I want to find the bodega around the corner
that knows my name.

I want you to take me on a Gray Line tour,
make me follow your colored umbrella,
spend too much on souvenirs I know I’ll lose.
I want to skip to the front of your VIP line
and get dirty looks for doing it.
I want to sing on your streets
loudly and obnoxiously because I know I can,
while wearing my PJs and smiling
with unbrushed teeth.
I want to find the bodega around the corner
that knows my name.

I want to wander your parks in spring
and curse your wind in winter.
I want to have to get dressed up for you,
so that I can be undressed later.
I want to be surprised when I find
the no-named place around the corner
has always served my favorite food.
I want to find the bodega around the corner
that knows my name.

I want to explore the interior
of your gentrified thighs.
I want to feel the danger of your ghettos
and sit on the subways of your veins.
I want to rent a car and play
pinball bumper cars on your FDR.
I want to forget where I was last night
and be happy that I woke up at home.
I want your din to comfort me while I sleep.
I want to find the bodega around the corner
that knows my name.

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