Jan 16

I lived in a city once


New York
is a heartbeat;
my heartbeat,
as the electric subway flies
down the tracks
like a silver strike
of lightning.

I have a yellow strand of 
crepe paper
wrapped around my neck, 
a string of sunshine fighting
the glow of Times Square around my shoulders,
free souvenir of
SpongeBob the musical,
a giddy throwback to
age 7,
when I lived in a city.

I never lived in New York,
only Boston,
with its maze of streets,
the corner store walking distance,
ice cream bars in the sticky
heat of summer.
New York is more methodical
than this.

Methodical,
but sleepless,
we eat pasta across from the hotel
minutes before midnight,
I don't understand the language
the patrons at the table
behind us speak,
but it's an odd sense
of peace to not be alone in the restaurant. 

The next morning,
my mother barely gets the opportunity to
hug me at the airport,
nervousness prickles my skin and
makes my
hair stand on end.
Is New York home? asks
a boy whose name
I don't know.
No, I say. I'm a country girl.

But I lived in a city once.