Everyone in New York is on the phone.
They are all having conversations
They want me to overhear.
They follow me on the streets and into cafés;
They talk on subway platforms, even subway cars.
It is all very urgent. It cannot wait one moment.
It has already been put off too long.
Most urgently, I have to overhear it;
It must be at such a volume
That I can't miss a word.
I guess I must be everyone's alibi –
Their conscience, maybe, or their chronicler.
I must be somebody very important,
Or else anybody else would do.
I hear you, New York City.
None of this is lost on me.
I will remember the time of your dentist appointment
And what an asshole your landlord is;
I will remember your sister's birthday
And how much you've always hated her,
And every detail of your hip surgery,
And why Carlos can go fuck himself.
And in return I ask for nothing.
There's nothing to remember about me.
I'll be slipping out of here like a ghost this evening
And making my phone calls tomorrow in Connecticut,
Where only the river can overhear me –
The river that does not care at all.
