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
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
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
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.