Beneath the chin
of your BK brownstone
we’d sit

    bodies slung
          across steps

eyes
                   flung
across skies

city simmering
in northern fog

concrete cradling
a northern frost

the backdrop of 86th
         jetting
         above
         our
         heads

you asked me
if I still thought
New York was all
it was cracked up to be.
Yes.