My thighs ache on the streets of East Village,
running from Rockefeller Plaza to Dylan’s,
a whirlwind of the Big Apple; three days
to laugh at the bus driver’s Brooklyn accent
and catch a ferry around the harbor.
Four hours to walk through the Met,
passing van Gogh's with a glance,
marveling at a collection that spans
several city blocks. Three days is
enough time for six hot dogs, eaten
hastily as you glance at the Guggenheim.
If you’re lucky, three days might be
enough time to get accidently stuck
in the subways in heels at eleven,
which is the hour that the bands play,
the homeless murmur, and the rats dance.
And as you wind down to the tune
of whatever it is Charles is playing
on the oak piano overlooking the city
that is far more awake than you are,
drinking a nameless red wine and
eating leftover eggplant parmesan,
three days might be enough time to
write a poem.
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