City (awake)

My city never sleeps.

It’s up all night.

Just like three college students drunk on being tired

who perused 7/11 like a Thanksgiving feast

spread out on a maplewood table.

It’s South Street diner where the Cuban sandwich

will melt in your mouth

at 3:00 AM.

With the packed-full booths and the shouting cooks,

scrape of the spatula on a sizzling stove,

and all the hungry human din

of the people

who just couldn’t fall asleep:

Not yet-

Who just couldn’t sacrifice this day for darkness,

Not yet-

Who needed one more kiss and one more bite

to fill their stomachs.

It’s the bright cavernous maze of the MFA,

Corridors of secret spaces to touch each other’s waists

That sweet fugitive feeling of being

where you don’t belong:

But the museum never seems to shut down.

My city is a sprawling lawn

With feet twisted together

Watching a movie framed by a warm carousel

and a cool mathematical skyline-

each pricked by bits of light and bleeding constellations.

It’s a sprawling archipelago of theaters;

a chain of culture hopped like squares on a sidewalk

Skipping stones that hit art no matter where you throw them.

My city is a highrise apartment

And the set of keys in my palm with seashell ridges

The lock that I expertly twist and kick or nudge with my hip,

The room where I sit and feel awake.

When it’s dark, when I’m tired

When the world is a rush like the street and the sirens

When my brain is soft and clouded

Still,

In this city,

I feel awake.

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