by Emily Semaya

I remember broken glass & tire moans– 

the way endless flashing lights

& garbage fires

lit up the police tape that mummified

bushes, trees, tulips, all things natural.

Don’t trust the man in the Elmo suit–

he’ll try to dupe you out of the petty change

you were saving 

for a dirty water dog; just a dollar-fifty & desperation.

Last time I ate one I rushed out

of a mediocre midtown matinee

holding my morning regrets in a diaper bag.

No one warned me

that Central Park doesn’t close after dark–

that’s where your mother must have

been when she was stolen away,

stuffed in a cab

or wandered off to whichever

corner store pimp could remember her name.

I bet you miss her, & the way her 

sidewalk Gucci belt’s diamonds 

fell down erupting manholes 

or in between the too-tall towers

we call our homes. 

Oh, what a wonderful town!

Swinging recklessly

vine to vine to vine–

one day I’ll crash into the new concrete statue

they erect just for me.