Going Home

There isn't as much gum
in New York
as people will lead you to believe.
It is not
smeared across every surface
or stuck under each 
railings.

The people in 
New York are not
as rude as you are told.

Everything flows,
liquid city
and it's smooth
like pulp-free 
orange juice.
A man gave me his
sunny seat on
the subway one day,
the car
completely crowded.

The people will tell you jokes
in the street,
and ask you directions.
A woman was told she won
a trip to Jamaica,
and she became so excited
(here the man laughs)
she asks, "when can I leave?"
(Oh here's the punch-line)
What do you mean, leave?
You're here!
It was a trip to Jamaica 
Queens.

There are bright umbrellas
hovering above black coats
in the rain,
fruit trucks unloading
morning produce,
everyone slithers across
the streets
like beautiful serpents.

I went to nearly
one million bodegas,
each with its own
accent.
Each had a counter full of
sweets
and a girl with a pretty face.

Everyone will tell you
New York is a commercial nightmare.
I ask them where they
went,
because it must not
be the same Manhattan I journeyed through.

With ancient stone churches
and limestone headstones,
strangers watching basketball
games in the park.
It isn't my home
they're talking about,
the streets pound in my veins.

So when they tell you
New York is.
I tell you,
New York 
isn't.