2:00 a.m., Avenue C

A beer bottle shocks the bar—
swung upward by the long neck.
Shards fall underfoot.

The crowd knocks itself over
like garbage cans in alleys, pushing
for taxis uptown to numbered streets.

Not me. An hour ago, I sensed
the dark lowdown, and liked it—
sublingual chipotle, pulse of bass,

bar screens flickering Grace Jones
so black she's purple,
cheekbones to razor the room.

I can't resist the pull to edges
where sharpness takes over.
The floorboards glitter, I'm wide awake.

Midnight, Grand Central

Christmas Eve—we are so rich
we forgo gifts, bundle ourselves
to that stone waystation, drop twenties
into the laps of sleeping tramps.
"Angels" cries one who awakens.

My face flushes with cold
and self-congratulation.
We are laughing
until a rag-heap rises
and stalks behind us.

When we run
our lungs seize air acrid
with urine and old sweat.
He is waving a bill—
you dropped this.

This poem first appeared in the Kakalak Anthology of Carolina Poets (2009).
Used here with the author's permission.