New York leaves me wishing
for more hair on my face, palms, back
to soften the slap, the whips of Brooklyn,
the splash and acid of Lower Manhattan,
the clack whack clack as I travel over
the Williamsburg bridge
on the bottom of the J train.
It strips me to the bone, fries my flesh
no matter how many layers of silk I put on.
This wonderful city wasn't born for me.
It offers no paths
I can herd the cows down
at sunset.
Sure, SoHo has its golden heifers
dressed in jade, in pearls, its lily steers,
but the barns float twenty feet off the ground.
My cows just won't go there.
They beg back to Fort Worth.
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