Delinquents

We steal pipes from vendors in the streets

on January afternoons when the sidewalks

sweat with melting ice,

painted gray as if their maker

had poured a bucket of swatted moths

over the cement.

We are expelling smoke like the french

but it isn't as graceful

over here.

I am hacking to gain back my lungs

grasping for oxygen like the oldest star

trying to reach a retina

before the centennial anniversary

of it's death.

Crisping sugared pecans and the days garbage

perfume your neck.

I drink it in when I lean into you against

the brassiness of the village at night,

and the plastic of the taxi seat.

We are intoxicated by Manhattan in retrograde,

the constant exchange of smog and poetry

glitter and sex.

We fit right in here

we say.

This is where we'll happen

this is the happening.

If we make it here our houses will never burn

our tiptoes, never blister.

We will never implode

like all those lost diamonds under the crust.

Once we are in the city,

nothing but art,

we will lay on frayed oriental rugs

and make friends with the mice

and each others insides.

This is where we will happen

we say.

This must be it.