I was performing in the 14th Street subway station. There were hip-hoppers and pickpockets and poetry slammers and holiday santas. Some toss juggler hit me in the head with a bowling pin. I watched break dancers spin themselves into oblivion.
You fell out of the sky like a Flying Wallenda. With the startling clear eyes of a fighter pilot. You said you painted portraits of starving artists. Took me home, took everything I’d left unguarded.
Now we have no place to go and no place to stay. No amount of Kevlar can keep us safe. Back at the 14th Street Station, beatboxers shift tempo in the mad, sweet rush.
Loneliness is yes and please and bruises on our knees. We sing our songs and people pay us to leave.