I have seen you shiver in broad daylight,
when icy February has left months ago.
I have watched a young Moroccan girl weep
for reasons known only by the aging cab driver
on the end of 92nd street.
I try to love this city,
but it is the same thing as loving sorrow.
I see the loss of life every day,
and go home to make boxed spaghetti
as if nothing has ever happened.
My neighbor used to go outside in the dead of winter
with no jacket or shoes on.
I asked why he did this,
and he said there are people who have it worse than him.
I think of the sad Moroccan girl,
and I imagine all the ghosts that have never left her.
(Sometimes people are alone.
Sometimes people weave silence and regret into their hair
and forget that they did this until 20 years later.
Sometimes heartache will eat a person alive)
I used to sit in a musty coffee shop on 83rd street,
and pour my espresso down a drain without drinking it.
I do not understand hollowness
I do not acknowledge desolation
I do not need to, because this city does it for me.
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