44 JANE STREET
Some errant wastrel like me,
abandoned forlorn on the steps
of the lawn, drags one sorry
foot before the other, over to
Stuyvesant Park. Gramercy,
where the gates are locked
unless they're not. I get
half-crocked at Pete's, and
successfully leave without
crashing a table or some
rich-crust, dining on their
parabolic diced hen. I know
I must head west, to the river
to the other side of the measly
town. (Those who call NY a
'town,' boy they bug me so).
-
Get me to Hudson, some
purloined Piels or PBR, if
any still exist. I lean on the
wall again, and this is my
new destiny. To ruminate
whilst I urinate; well, like
that anyway. This whole
city's a sewer now. I can
cough at The White Horse,
and find Perry Street, and
Jane. Things like this, always
amiss, make me think of rain.
-
Just like that! Falling down
in ruinous buckets! I try to
stand at some place dry, but
the rotters always move me
along - all these little rich
brats now, they don't want
my sort near their fort. That's
how they gentrify that which
their rent can buy.
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