On my way to mass my head throbs with illness
the way it pounds
with the heavy drop of dubstep
and the thud of drink.
Park Avenue on a Friday evening
makes my head
shudder with its glit and grody reality;
the doormen learning on the glass panes,
foggy with their water droplet breath--
I am arrested by the sight of Degas' little dancer,
artfully arabesqued upon an antique end table
in an anonymously chic
foyer of some chiropractor's empty evening offices.
Even my favorite mansion between
84th and 85th,
generally so fashionably devoid of life,
is lit with glamor:
the hint of high stair cases and adrenaline buzz of weekend evening
pour out her windows,
the lobby of 1060 Park
is lousy with wealthy waifs,
women who are fashionably
on the brink of starvation,
swaddled in fur.
Starlight from gold windows
and blue light from evening air
plunge me one or two drinks deep.
The soporific spell of a head cold corroborates,
compounding the celebratory throbbing,
until I am inebriated on New York's
New York plays my heart strings to the tune of his own name,
a selfish and efficient lover
whose rhythm thrills through my bloodstream.
I have lost the cadence of my own name.
I know now how he can
with his gilt interiors,
and overpriced art from
a Chelsea gallery
peeping through the
Baroquely corniced windows.
January 26, 2016