The streets are busy
and impatient.
Polished crimson nails
click against a
cellphone jammed uncomfortably
against an ear.
People jostle across
the intersection.
fighting to get to the still-red light
on the other side,
anxious to get there
before the glaring walk-sign
shows its ugly face.
It's loud.
Conversations on all sides,
no thought of privacy.
No one conversation
in distinguishable through
the all-consuming babble.
Heads butt against each other.
They might argue the same side,
maybe opposite.
Nobody really cares,
as long as they have
somebody to tango with.
Everywhere smells
like urine and
expectations.
Tall buildings glitter among the stars
at night, against
the blacker-than-black sky.
It is song and dance.
The whole city has its
own kind of music.
This is my city.
I fucking love New York.
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