New York is Fine

New York is fine 

at 54 degrees. Ice cream 

is possible and the parasites 

in the hot dogs are probably dead. 

The sun is hung somewhere 

out of sight. Hell’s Kitchen is shaded 

beneath a dome and you are trapped. 

Storefront-stacked fertilizer seems useful 

but isn’t. The sidewalks are just wet 

enough to seem mopped. The dollar 

slice is $1.50 and the wind carries smoking

meat, gin, hand sanitizer, citrus peel, 

occasionally sugar. New York is 

54 degrees and there is nothing

to walk towards that isn’t blocked

by a puddle, those cement things,

a register, a turnstile, 

paperwork,

and it is possible

to not care 

if the blur of a taxi 

smashes into you.