july and bowery

 

the heat makes me love this city more
thick air makes it tangible and for
once, smaller

i can put my arms clear around new york

blue shoes on the pavement
are stark as birds in flight
purposeful purposeless evening strolls are
made of empanadas, orange dresses, an
energetic malaise

your arm draped on my shoulder makes
me nervous in the way i suppose
nervous feels when it
still feels this good seven months in

and the new shepard fairey off bowrey, a
block-long face painted and braced for war
frames at least two haltingly homeless people pushing by

what is it about new york in the summer that
coxes us to drop our skittish defenses? and
what is it about you that makes pushing
all our belongings around aimlessly in
a shopping cart seem deceptively beautiful?