This seemed very New York to me, though I never want to ask myself why I didn’t devote myself to my life as I have been over the past few years. I refuse to believe complacence is in my future.
Poem That Wants to be Called the West Side Highway
You can do the work just by starting it. You can
do whatever you want. A bill
is drafted on a train to Albany, or in a black
limousine. Like how one day I walked
the entire length of Manhattan, except I didn’t.
I didn’t finish. Not nearly. How could I?
Stopped as I was by the boat basin. These
credit cards fill with gin
and tonic. They pool with the stuff. Maybe
I get a little lost sometimes,
start thinking I went to Yale. Once I swam
to Governors Island, between the ferries
and freighters. It was like a job you should’ve seen
me quit. Maybe they looked for me. Maybe
it wasn’t someone else’s shift, and then
it was. Sometimes people are just turnstiles.
You have to tell them to keep
turning, keep turning into someone else. The rain
crashes across a cab, and the road
has filled. We’re waterborne. Or whatever
the word is for that little moment
when the heart lifts. Why don’t you devote
yourself the way you once did? It’s
an old answer, and an early
one. The alarm goes off for a while after it
stops. In your face in the bathroom
mirror. You play that little song to look at
your teeth. My teeth. They haven’t been cared for.
The class giggles at my age. This is
my hearing. The chances taken on a new face.