by Sharon Lynn Griffiths
This city is a single island.
I think she bribes the long one
on her left and the Dutch one underneath
to pretend theyíre with her,
to keep her safe. But it doesnít always work.
She is too proud, she stands too straight,
her steel fingertips insist
on scraping the sky, attempting to affect the weather.
When I was young, every man wore a hat,
tan or black, or navy blue.
I thought that was how she got her name.
And she is quite masculine,
wearing her aggression like the armor
of Saint Joan, deprived of sleep, walking the night
with eight million voices in her head.
When I was young, she fed meóand her milk
smelled of metal, soot, and gasoline.
From her, I learned the dangers of the playground,
the virtue of looking straight ahead,
and never to trust the genuine.
Every day, people collapse onto her cement skin
like cigarette ash, no blood left in them.
So now I sneak up on her underground,
walk softly along her asphalt back
and leave before she can turn on me
with her rodent teeth.
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