There’s an after taste
that has been plaguing my tongues
for months now
and my conscience
tells me it’s something
called home.
Something like the sting
of rotten apples
grown along the stride
of Lady Liberty.

You see,
big cities tend to
stain my my mouth
and I’ve yet to
figure out how
to brush off such
brackish flavors
brought on by
bundled bodies
in train cars.

I am craving
warm subways
and cold concrete.
Craving that sweet insincerity
like candied cold shoulders.

I want to be served
every bit of a
baked BK attitude
in the furl of a brow.
Want to taste
hard broiled Harlem
in the switch of hips.
Mild Manhattan oozing
the stitch of an
Hermes steeple tote.

I am always quick
to order a flight
to my second home.