Witness

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.