In my NYC,
it is not the fast paced,
frames cut,
cut throat,
maximum throttle.
In my NYC,
it is not the self-engorged,
daddy grubbing,
satisfied pretender.
It is the sickly woman
thrown out on her ass,
from a dirtbag hotel,
only to take up residence,
her only residence left,
outside,
below the filthy irons
on its windows.
And my NYC
is also that sunrise walk,
from midtown
past the Flatiron building,
wherein I finally realize what I want in another person,
should they walk by.
But they never just 'walk by'.
And my NYC
is still the thrill
of cosmopolitan beauty -
of language and variegated ethos,
of music and general debauchery,
of friendship and our shared struggle
to simply exist
here
in this space.
My NYC is nothing of its myth.