New York, New York
By Gary Percesepe


                  You left your new shoes.—Frank O'Hara

The city's hung in
flashlights. Wizard's
bridges festooned
with garlands for
those who must live
forever. Sun is weak
but no one notices.
Trinity Church alert
like the narrow finger
of God at the head of
the street where money-
men who pray for more
pace nervously for Maria
Bartiromo. Pictures fall
off the wall of a TriBeCa
loft. Bobby DeNiro sighs
somewhere close by.
The big hole in the
ground is not closed, still
zero. I was too young to lose
my virginity to the girl
from Virginia that I
met at the Waldorf so
instead I smiled and
stood next to her on
the choir risers. I miss
the Horn and Hardart
automat, lit like an Edward
Hopper painting & the
Camel smoke curling from
the billboard in Time's
Square. Twice a day
traffic comes to a com-
plete halt on the LIE
in honor of Robert
Moses. I don't remember
her name, the girl I
mean, but if you see
her would you tell her
for me that it's OK to be
an out of towner when
you look like Catherine
Deneuve. And that I'll
wait for her on the Circle
Line, Pier 83, West 42nd
Street, she can cab it
but don't forget the tip.

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