Abraxas NYC

Vile blueberries

sleep beside mustard covered glass

withering with despair over the detritus of lost dreams

and splintered bridges with seams torn asunder by fear, accusation, projection

and the knowing that it is too often too easy  to be alone in a city

where polite vomit is a clue to ATM receipts

where taxis sail to Harlem—the last stop before Heaven

where you can’t use your Metro card after dark.

All this she said, as she crumpled her dirty tissue

into her pocket but not before

wiping it clean with the Truth

of her own withholding.

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