I promised Nick I'd take him out
of Pennsylvania, away from evergreen
trees and our troubles. My car leaked carbon
monoxide, but never enough to ****
us. Where we lived, things never changed.
Two out of three stores open on Main Street,
two gas stations where people paid $3.64
a gallon just to leave, a grocery store
that never settled on a name, and a police
force with histories no cleaner
than their patrol cars. If you've taken Route 6
through, you've seen too much. We dreamt
of Lady Liberty raising her torch to the sunset
in defense of the Empire State, or simply to pluck
it like a musician playing for pennies
near Strawberry Fields from the sky.
The Big Apple, where people make art instead
of excuses and the brightest lights aren't fixed
atop police cars.

Years have passed since our dreams died in '13.
We're stationed at desks in different hemispheres
for different reasons. All he has left are his lonesome
thoughts and all I have are mine. It won't be long
before my pen becomes a serpent and strangles
me in my sleep or my butterscotch disks turn
to cyanide. I'll always hold steadfastly
to our dreams underground.

Nick, I promise you that one day, we'll make
it to New York.