West Village as vacation


I want to celebrate looking
in the mirror, but I don’t know how.
I can walk from 28th Street through
8th Avenue throngs,
asking where the park is,
getting them saying,
depends on what you wanna do in the park.
We’re trying to figure out the
meaning of life, of course, they shoo
us back east, towards Union or Tompkins Square.
Sit on the bench and pretend that
I put my head in your lap, asking for some
tangible touch of real
in ghosts acid the Bible.
A man whose khakis and stretched t-shirt
canvas across his belly
screaming tourist tourist tourist
checks out the statue a little too closely,
and it reminds us that yes,
New York is still New York.
When an older guy with a rainbow belt
wrapping his high-waisted shorts
hovering over tube socks
asks us if we need a cup of coffee,
we are offered a slice of
New York that tourists don’t get
to see because they still won’t
sit in our parks till 2am,
in the West Village as vacation,
figuring out how to kiss
goodnight without getting off
I-95 just yet.


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