Atlanta to NY

A Poem

We pass through the greyed pallor
of downtown Atlanta, the same hungry eyes
meet me outside the airport here ,
as meet me in New York.

We drive past old trees, that sit and watch the
city cycle through excesses and poverty,
fine dining is pearled by oyster shells, the trash
cans are lined with lobster husks and
buttered gristle.

I like this world, where the white flowers,
on the side of a frosted mountain in the catskills
exist on the same plane as bot flies,
and HIV. I don’t mind so much anymore,
the inexplicable unevenness; the motion of the world
in constant becoming.

I’m fine right here.