The only way to marry a city is draping yourself in its legend.
There I was, a flea eclipsed by a merriment of dogs,
like a peddler clutching his flock of balloon tails
at a carnival. We’d commandeer sidewalks, a ship
full of misfits sailing Upper West currents under
pantomime vigils of shiny-toed doormen.
Prozac purebreds never deigned beg for pats;
blood too blue for fawning. I was happiest
amongst the citizen canines of rescued lore;
bastards and fleabags. Like a gang of New York,
we found the city’s secrets and left our mark
on fire hydrants and hearts — harassing old flashers
adorned in trench coats and fedoras like yesteryear
spies; holding court with ballerinas trading pointe shoes
for tattoos; and drowning out loneliness by howling out
music across parks bathed in echoes of Dylan and Ginsberg.