The heavy days of New York summer
sit and wait with me on the train platform
and remind me how far I am from you.
Here at the confluence of Broadway,
Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street;
the eastern terminus of the Lincoln Highway,
I stand and strain my eyes westward in vain.
My picture memory has expired
with time -- with distance,
and you continue to fall away;
another sun below my horizon.
You said my dalliances were unforgiveable,
and you never understood my need for time
apart, though I always came back to you.
I tried to call and confess my love
but the buskers drum and taxi traffic beat
made it near impossible for me to hear.
I don’t belong here amongst the bad clichés,
Bubba Gump and “I Love NY” t-shirts.
I haven’t slept in almost two years
and neon lights can’t replace the sun.
This city is a cheap whore
and Times Square is where she tricks
the gullible as they climb off the bus.
Moriarty’s ghost haunts me
and beckons me back to the road;
back to your long golden embrace.
Please forgive me my love
and help me find my way back
across the broken heartland between us
and back home to you.