“There’s a museum of *** around the corner”
“A what?”
“A museum of ***.”

A lady hums a melody on the bus to Queens, I lean in and listen to her quietly, but don’t say a word.

Crowds choke avenues as protestors call out the police. The police surround them. The irony of being protected by the same force that destroys is not lost.

Rain puddles on the black cement, I notice how soft the yellow water is in contrast with the harsh taxis.

A stray glove sits lonely on the subway stairs, useless without its other half.

“This entire factory used to be covered in graffiti, the city keeps painting over the art”

A snotty waiter recommends watery wine that costs an arm and a leg, he snorts when I don’t tip.

At a flea market a lady assures me this moonstone will “cleanse me,” I lost it rushing off to midtown.

The lights twinkle like flecks of gold against black stone and I realize night is never night here.

My guy tells me he doesn’t like me in the city, I tell him I’ve never liked myself anyways.