April in New York City
Rising above the traffic and the skyline, past the fat bus
tunneling through its own smoke like bad magic.
Over the screaming cars and blaring storefronts, the radios
and fussing babies, the pothole’s hiccupy thrum.
Walking or waiting, above ground or beneath it,
all I need is time, its thinnest slice, and you arrive:
your face, the spring sun; your voice, the smoothest
sidewalk; your hands, the racing taxi’s windy fingers
tangling in my hair. You. Why you? When there are
boiled bagels, crisp from the oven? When rare dog breeds
haughtily ignore me in the park? When old friends
stagger with beauty, drink thick fists of beer and dance?
Why you? When this glittering city stretches before me,
steel and dirt and relentless: the everything I need it to be.
Explain to me why it is then, that I stand silent in its middle,
listening to my heart play its one note,
its loudest, its most true:
you. you. you. you.